


Carbon Dating

by aroncorsier



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Kidnapping, PTSD is weaponized, Undertaker starts out as kind of a dick, noncon, undertaker x reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2019-10-21 11:54:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 59,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17642291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aroncorsier/pseuds/aroncorsier
Summary: A young university student invested in biochemistry and anatomy with a background in psychology, (you), is kidnapped by the Undertaker in order to help him bring the dead back to life. However, reader has moral conflicts with this task and basically makes life hell for the Undertaker the whole way through. The mortician must weaponize PTSD in order to force you to obey his requests, but the reader is clever and is constantly conniving escape.You complete the given tasks with enough skill and effort to not be disposed of, whilst trying to stay sane while locked in the basement of a morgue with only a sadistic and unfortunately attractive grim reaper to keep you company. The undertaker, meanwhile, must convince you to assist him without getting attached to you. Sexual tension, mental chaos, and science! Fun, right?





	1. Chapter 1

My campus was nice. Fresh greenery was everywhere, here on the west coast, and even at night, the weather was pleasant. Although, I must admit, the tall brick buildings were a little more than averagely creepy in the dark, what with the minimal lighting provided along the long winding walking path from the pale lampposts.  
I pulled my backpack up over my left shoulder and kept walking. My right shoulder was tired.  
I pulled the hood up on my light sweater as I passed beneath a street post to block out the light. It was too bright for my eyes to adjust to in the darkness.  
I was the only one out at this time. Yawning, I glanced around myself. Security here was good, and I felt perfectly safe walking down the path alone.  
Oak trees and poplars started to replace lampposts as the path wound its way into the center of the campus. About halfway to my dorm, now.  
I sighed and glanced at my watch. 1:15 AM. Gross. Can’t believe I fell asleep at the library, I had class in the morning, for heaven’s sake.  
Something caught my attention as I rounded a corner. On a bench that typically sat vacant, a man was waiting.  
Waiting? Not waiting. Just sitting, I corrected myself.  
I paused, eyebrows lifting in surprise. I realized I was standing in lamplight, and darkness beyond made him difficult to see. Luckily, his stark white hair and skin was clearly visible.  
He glanced at me as my footsteps halted.  
“Uh— hi,” I said awkwardly, hands glued to the strap of my backpack. I shook myself. “Uh, s-sorry,” I grinned, feeling suddenly foolish. “I don’t recognize you. Are you from the Humanities department?”  
The strange man tilted his head. His hair said a hundred, his skin said twenty. I was confused.  
His polite grin was unnerving.  
“Sorry,” he murmured, rising in a sudden sweeping motion. “I must have given you quite a fright. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m a professor here,” he continued, voice slightly low and raspy.  
His eyes were... what colour was that, chartreuse?  
He held out a pale hand, long black nails beckoning politely.  
“Ah, you did startle me! I just didn’t expect anyone out at this time,” I apologized, awkwardly planting my palm in his for a moment before we both let go. He was inhumanly cold, but I forced myself not to say anything.  
When he didn’t move, I glanced nervously at the ground. It was only my first year here. “So... what do you teach, p-professor?”  
He clasped his hands behind his back, leaning down and bending awkwardly so that he blinked up at me. I took a surprised step backwards, cheeks darkening. What the hell?—  
“You needn’t be so shy,” he chuckled, straightening up as I stumbled away. “You’re allowed to make eye contact with teachers.”  
“Ah, uh, sorry,” I smiled apologetically again and forced myself to meet his gaze.  
With a slight grin he spun himself in line beside me and placed one hand on the small of my back, just below my backpack.  
I winced and stiffened up awkwardly, but the strangely invasive contact dropped away as we started walking again.  
“I’m an instructor at the faculty of Social Sciences and Economics,” he explained, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the humanities buildings. “I don’t recognize you at all, so I assume you’re from the medical and biochemical section? Or are you from the arts?” He asked, tapping his finger against his mouth thoughtfully as we strolled.  
I shook my head. “You has it right the first time. I’m currently in biochem heading towards a doctorate in anatomy,” I laughed nervously.  
“Ah, anatomy is fascinating,” he agreed, flipping a piece of long white hair out of his face and glancing at me. I glanced away again, completely unsure what to make of the situation. “Do they still allow students like you to partner with morgues to figure out bodies?”  
I almost didn’t hear his question. “Yes,” I replied immediately. “Went there last week.”  
“Those places always seemed a bit too creepy for me,” he sighed, pulling his arms around himself and shivering dramatically. “Yuck.”  
I raised my eyebrow skeptically. This professor was the epitome of creepy. Economics? Really?  
He glanced at me and caught me analyzing him. Fuck.  
With an amused smile he tilted his head back. “What? Bug in my hair?”  
I shook my head and chuckled. “Sorry. Just used to watching people. It’s a habit.”  
“That’s alright, we’re all a bit odd,” he replied easily, and a slight stress was lifted from my anxious shoulders.  
“Indeed.”  
We walked in silence for a few minutes.  
“So why are you out this late, professor? If you don’t mind me asking,” I inquired, concerned for the man’s mental well-being. I was previously in social sciences, specifically psychology, which was in a separate building from economics. Perhaps that’s why I hadn’t seen him.  
“I was waiting for you,” he replied.  
My blood ran cold.  
“Wha—“  
“You took an awfully long time,” he scolded with a light smile, and I stepped away from him, bag slipping off my shoulder.  
His biggest mistake was when he made to grab me. I swung my backpack around, launching it at him as I took off running back towards the library.  
I heard him curse behind me, but I didn’t get far. His footsteps caught up with me in a few quick strides. I yelped as I was unceremoniously forced to the cold ground. It occurred to me that I should scream, and I opened my mouth to do so, but his hand pressed over my jaw and muffled it.  
I flailed, punching and kicking madly at him as I cried and screamed into his hand again.  
Somehow, he managed to shift his hips atop mine, and in a blur of black and white in the darkness, one sleeved arm cut across my throat as he leaned down. Craning my face away, I shoved against his arm, but it cut off my air regardless and I could feel my chest begin to burn. Then he switched, the hand silencing me leaving my mouth and gripping my throat tightly instead. More panicked tears slid down the sides of my face as the concrete pressed sharply against the back of my shoulders.  
The stranger leaned his forehead against mine and sighed.  
“Shhh,” he quieted me, batting away my hands. “It’ll be over in a moment.”  
Was he— was he going to kill me?! I was going to die! Was this it? Is this how easy it was for serial killers? Has anyone been on the news lately?—  
The pressure from his hand hurt, it hurt my throat so much, and I was going blind, I was going to die—

 

“What. The fuck.” I murmured, lifting my hands as my eyes opened slowly.  
Where in gods name was I, and... what happened...  
“I’m not dead,” I whispered slowly, eyes widening in disbelief as I touched my face. As my arms moved, I heard metal shift near me and glanced down. The terror of my situation settled in.  
Kidnapped. I’d been kidnapped.  
“No...” I whispered, feeling panic well up inside me again as I stared at the chains. My wrists were cuffed tightly. Who even had these kinds of cuffs anymore? How would you even get them? Hello, Home Hardware, do you happen to sell slavery cuffs? No, please don’t put me through to Victoria’s Secret—  
I was laying on the floor, on some sort of mat. The lights were extremely dim; so dim, it seemed like candlelight.  
The room I was in was warmer than expected for a concrete chamber.  
A small fire burned in a corner, in a square divot in the floor. At the centre of the room there was a heavy wooden desk, about seven feet long and four feet wide. That consumed most of the space in the chambers. At its side was an antique-looking chair with wheels on the bottom. My little corner consisted of me and some sort of cushion layer between me and the floor, along with a black wool blanket over top of a dark blue cotton cover. My wrists were chained to the wall, oddly individually. I found, through tugging on the chains, that I had a surprising amount of slack in the restraints, and they both connected to a steel or iron ring that was imbedded in the stone. Next to me on the floor were my glasses, which I picked up gratefully and slid onto my face. The gelidity of the metal frames made me wince.  
Next, I glared down at myself. My clothes were gone, which was concerning. I wondered idly if anything had happened to me while I had been unconscious.  
In the stead of my typical wear, I was sporting long black robes—  
The exact same ones the stranger had been wearing, I reflected fearfully.  
Staring across the room at the door, I kicked the blankets off of me and silently stood myself up.  
Grimacing as the chains scraped loudly on the floor, I crept towards the desk, and then moved past. My reach was cut off about fifteen feet in, just before I could reach the door.  
Stepping back with a shaky breath, I approached the desk again. Sliding open a heavy oak drawer, I was relieved to find merely pens and ink pots.  
Ink pots? Why was everything so old?  
In the next drawer there was yellowed and line-less paper, and in the third, a scalpel. I kicked the third drawer closed quickly with a shudder of regret.  
Pressing my hand over my mouth in disbelief as the gravity of my situation hit me again, I stumbled back and fell to the ground just short of my blankets.  
Shivering, I dragged myself to the wall and curled up against it, beginning to cry. Why was I here? Why me? Was it rape? Was it torture? Was I to be dissected? What was the scalpel for? Why was everything antique? Who the hell was the creep that had taken me?  
I curled up tighter. My feet were cold.  
Idly, I wondered if I could make it to the fire.  
Dredging my mind up and out of my fear, I crawled across the smooth concrete. I had just enough chain distance to reach the flames if I stayed flat on the ground.  
I sat there, on the warmer concrete, with my feet next to the flames. The rest of the room was darker and colder, and watching the flames dance was a nice distraction. Their heat stinging my cheeks reminded me that I was alive.  
Just as my panic began to settle down, the door creaked open, and to my horror the tall and dark stranger from campus stepped into the room, appearing much the same.  
I screamed, startling him. His bright green eyes snapped to where I was hiding by the fire as he kicked the door closed behind him.  
With a smirk he drifted towards me.  
Screaming again, I threw my hands into the fire and grabbed one of the flaming chunks of wood, whipping the fire log at him and ignoring the searing heat on my hands.  
His eyes widened again and his hands shot up. I expected him to duck or bat it away, but instead, his white fingertips curled over the fire and caught my failed weapon. Holding it in front of him as though it were a slightly dirty piece of laundry, he lifted an eyebrow at me.  
I stared while he held it without flinching or burning.  
“Creative,” he accredited me, before casually walking towards me again and placing the burning log back into the fire.  
Too close, too close!—  
He was suddenly far too close to me, only about a foot away. Pressing myself into the wall, I lunged for the fire again, just barely reaching another flaming stick. I didn’t care that he didn’t burn. It was all I had.  
My hands screamed as I held the wood, even though I tried to hold the part that was not on fire. Levelling it in front of myself defensively, as one might with a sword, I stared at him with pure terror, my heart hammering and my breath ragged. I winced as a flame licked at the side of one of my hands.  
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he scolded, reaching for my weapon.  
I screamed and bashed him across the face with it, which caught him by surprise.  
He growled and reached forwards again, but drew back when I swung wildly.  
Sighing in frustration, the stranger darted to the centre of the room, yanking on the chains that laid abandoned on the floor.  
With the sudden jerking motion, my hands dropped the wood and it clattered to the ground uselessly.  
I couldn’t find anything else to grab. The floor was smooth, and my captor pulled on the chains swiftly, dragging me towards him even as I thrashed and wailed. My fear intensified with every inch that vanished between us. Twisting my shoulders awkwardly, I pulled and strained away with all of my might. He didn’t even break a sweat. The suddenly I was lifted off the ground, and he was holding the chains right at my cuffs, leading me to stand before him, nervously twitching and crying.  
He clicked his tongue and I flinched. Rotating his grip, he twisted my wrist around. The side of my hand was angry and red.  
“Look at that,” he reprimanded, suddenly releasing my chains and instead bunching a fist into my collar, carefully gripping my burned hand with the other and dragging me right up against him so that I was on my tiptoes. I desperately latched onto his shoulder with my free hand and cringed away, pressing my eyes closed and gritting my teeth.  
His thumb lightly ran over the burn. His cold skin relieved the sting, although the contact made it itch. Hissing quietly in discomfort, I jerked my hand away. His grip tightened and I cried out.  
Sighing again, he dropped me very suddenly. Falling back, I stepped on the edge of my long robes and crumbled to the floor, smacking into it hard.  
I didn’t even move while he went through the motions of leaving and returning; I simply laid on the floor and wept, my mind numb and my hand aching.  
When he came back he rolled me over and took my wrist, pouring a cool mystery liquid over the burn before wrapping a light layer of cotton bandaging around my palm a few times, snipping and tying it appropriately. I laid motionless, a defeated rag-doll sprawled on the concrete.  
Placing the equipment on the desk, he knelt next to me and pulled me to him.  
I didn’t fight him. Suddenly exhausted, I blinked up at him with bleary and glassy eyes. His hair scratched at me like frosted branches of a birch tree, hanging in threatening locks of silver.  
His eyes were dark, expression concerned yet guarded and observant.  
After a moment of silence, his arm beneath my head and the other wrapped around my waist as though I were a fallen hero, I spoke.  
“W-w-why h-have you t-taken m-m-me?” I whimpered, half-heartedly grasping the robes at his chest with my intact hand. The fabric was slippery and soft against my fingertips.  
The stranger lifted an eyebrow with an amused grin. “That’s for me to know, and you to find out.”  
I groaned in defeat and flopped my arm over my eyes. “I knew it. Is it rape, or torture? Which one?” I demanded, meek demeanour disintegrating as spite began to overrule survival instincts.  
I felt him tense up. “Your purpose is scientific,” he growled.  
“SCIENTIFIC!” I screeched, thrashing free of his grip and rolling away from him. “EXCELLENT! FANTASTIC! SCIENTIFIC USE! IS THAT WHAT THE—FUCKING—SCALPEL IS FOR? GONNA DISSECT MY EYES WHILE THEY’RE STILL MOVING?”  
I grabbed up the slack chain and whipped it at him when he approached me again. Once more, he caught it and jerked it towards himself.  
“At this point,” he seethed, yanking open the third drawer and grabbing the little knife as he continued to drag me back. “Cutting out your vocal chords seems like a much preferable option.”  
“WHAT, SO YOU CAN MURDER ME WITHOUT ALL THIS SCREAMING? JUST KILL ME AND GET IT OVER WITH, YOU PSYCHOPATH,” I shouted, lunging forwards and grabbing his wrist, pressing the blade of the knife into the side of my throat. I winced as it broke the skin but kept pushing.  
“Jesus!” He cried, pulling his hand back and dropping the knife. “You’re insane!”  
“YOU’RE ONE TO TALK! YOU FUCKING KIDNAPPED ME AND YOU’RE CALLING ME INSANE?” I laughed hysterically and went for the knife. Mamma taught me to slit my own wrists and get it over with; I didn’t want to be tortured endlessly.  
He bolted to his feet, kicking the scalpel away from me and retrieving the cotton bandages. My neck was bleeding quite openly and quite heavily.  
Dropping to his knees in front of me, he dragged me back and started wrapping the bandage around my throat. I pulled against it.  
“Let me die!”  
“I’m not going to torture you!” He shouted, and I stilled. “Let me help you! I’m not going to torture you,” he repeated, voice rasping from the sudden volume change.  
“Why should I believe you?” I hissed in return, but I ceased my fighting and allowed him to fix the wound. As soon as he had tied it, I ripped away from him again and sat heavily, leaning back on my arms and glaring suspiciously at him with a heaving chest.  
“Because I need you,” he explained slowly, glowing green eyes imploring. “That’s why I brought you here. I need your help. It’s not an accident that I took you from your campus,” he continued, speaking quickly. “I need your biological knowledge.”  
I stilled and stared at him incredulously. “Mate, you could’ve just fucking asked for an interview!” I cried in disbelief.  
“No,” he pressed his hands over his eyes. “You don’t understand. You will soon,” he gave up, glancing away.  
“Explain now,” I commanded, feeling the bandage at my throat with my fingertips and drawing my knees up to my chin.  
His eyes flickered back to me and I cowered away slightly, confidence waning.  
“Uh... I mean...”  
“I’m a grim reaper and I require your assistance in figuring out how to bring the dead back to life,” he replied evenly, a condescending grin twitching his lips. “The reason I kidnapped you is this is highly unethical and I’ve been analyzing your character for a while. I know you have the skills I require, and you’re the only one whom I could locate that wouldn’t just collapse under the pressure. However, you also happen to have very concrete moral standings. I knew this would not be a consensual adventure, and you’re clever. I have to be careful with you,” he elaborated, tapping his temple with a long black nail and leering at me.  
I stared, absorbing the information fairly adeptly.  
“You know what?” I said after a moment. “I believe you. Fuck it. I believe you. Sure, you’re a grim reaper, and okay, somehow, I have the skill set. But if you know I won’t do this voluntarily, what makes you think you can make me do it at all?”  
“I’ve been cataloguing your habits and lifestyle for a while,” he replied easily, and I cut him off.  
“So you’ve been stalking me.”  
“Not important. Regardless, I know your weak spots, and while I would prefer not to use them against you, I do not value human life enough to withhold them, either.”  
I paled, but set my jaw firm. “I don’t believe you. I don’t have weak spots. You can’t torture me, I’ll just take it until I die.”  
He shook his tresses in a frustrated sigh and crawled towards me on his hands and knees. I caved in and scrabbled backwards, but he was faster and the floor was too slippery. The gap was closed as his imposing form invaded my bubble of safety.  
“D-don’t—“  
“Don’t what?” He mocked, leaning down over me so that his mouth was against my ear.  
I was paralyzed, shaking and almost on the verge of tears again.  
“Don’t what?” He repeated. “What happened to all that moxy?”  
“I...”  
His hips were digging into me, chest laid heavily against mine. Surely, I would drown in the hair that draped across my throat and mouth.  
“Everyone fears something,” he chuckled, breath suffocatingly hot against my ear. I cranked my head away. “You gave yours away to me.”  
I started to cry.  
“D-Don’t!” I protested weakly.  
“Don’t what? You can’t even say it,” he hissed.  
“G-get off of me!” I wailed, my hands pressed awkwardly between our midsections. “Please! G-get away from me!” I coughed again, thrashing my head from side to side. He followed my movements threateningly, maintaining the spacial invasion.  
“What’s wrong?” He breathed on my face. “Does this feel a little too familiar?”  
I felt like clawing his eyes. And crawling out of my skin. My shoulders began to burn and my breathing quickened. Panic—  
I could do nothing but lay beneath him, trapped.  
Trapped.  
His hair covered my eyes. His mouth was against mine. Fuck off! I bit him. The same motions.  
I can’t get away, I can’t get away! Will anyone believe me?!— is it my fault—  
I burst fully into tears, and I could sense my own body slacken as I stopped fighting.  
The stranger felt it too, and he pulled back.  
“Get—away,” I wheezed, staring off into the darkness.  
My kidnapper chuckled. “Perhaps I will just use you as a toy. You put up a good fight and yield... satisfying results.”  
I gagged and clawed weakly at the ground, twitching and sobbing as he stepped away from me. Hiding my face against the concrete, I only heard him distantly.  
“Get used to your quarters, as moving you would prove difficult and inconvenient. I will return in an hour when you have calmed down. I will bring water and food. Then I will assign you your first task.”  
The door snapped shut behind him.  
Trapped again.


	2. Chapter 2

“Come eat,” the stranger instructed.  
I glared at the white fringe of bangs facing me. “No. I’ll starve myself.”  
He sighed defeatedly and leaned his chin on his hand.  
A second chair had been brought into the room. He now sat across the desk from me, hair hiding his face and nails tapping impatiently on the wooden surface. Bread and tea sat untouched between us.  
“Eat,” he tried again. “Or drink. Surely, you’re thirsty.”  
“Quite,” I steeled my gaze and cleared my throat. “Especially with all that screaming. Have you ever been kidnapped via strangulation?” I asked innocently, rubbing my neck before crossing my arms. “It does a number on the throat.”  
I could sense his irritation growing. Perfect.  
We sat in silence for a few more seconds. I sized him up, and he glared at me silently.  
“Eat,” he said again, gesturing forwards.  
“I’ll eat,” I agreed suddenly, planting my hands down on the surface of the table. “If you unchain me.”  
“No,” he replied evenly. “Eat because I tell you so, and because you’re hungry.”  
“Well, your priorities are pretty clear,” I pouted, leaning back in the chair again.  
He sighed and folded his arms on the desk, laying his head on them.  
“I’ll drink,” I wagered again. “On one condition and one condition only.”  
To my surprise, the stranger lifted his head and stared at me expectantly.  
I drummed my fingers on the desk once. “Tell me your name.”  
“You can call me Undertaker,” he allowed, a small smile splitting his features.  
“Your name,” I hissed. “Not a title.”  
“That is my name. I’m a mortician. It is all I have been called for centuries,” he affirmed placidly. “Therefore you may call me that as well.”  
After a brief moment of deliberation, I rocked forwards in the chair again and nodded. “Alright, now we’re getting somewhere. Undertaker, then,” I continued, swiping up the cup of cold tea and pouring some into my mouth. “Tell me again why you’ve so rudely kidnapped me.”  
“You’ve time-travelled, by the way,” he said, and I choked on the drink.  
He snickered. “I have a bad habit of stealing humans from different time periods. You have advanced knowledge that will help me,” he explained, and I took another wide-eyed sip from the cup, staring at the ancient wooden desk with newfound appreciation. Why not.  
“A-alright,” I bobbed my head back and forth in contemplation. “Fine. But why am I here?”  
The Undertaker waved an indifferent hand. “I am in need of assistance regarding reanimation of a corpse. I can teach you about what happens to a human after death, and then you are to find the location wherein which I can reinstall the cinematic records.”  
“Cinematic records?” I asked, brow furrowing. “Is that like, a soul?”  
He nodded, and I reached for the bread. This was getting interesting, if it was true.  
“Sure,” he allowed. “A soul. At the end of a human’s life, a grim reaper such as myself clips the cinematic record— the end of the soul, as it were. However the cinematic records materialize somewhat ambiguously, simply rupturing from the body. I cannot seem to physically wind them back into the brain, nor anywhere else. I require your advanced knowledge of chemistry in order to break down a cinematic record into its bare essences and allow it to be reabsorbed into a body,” he concluded, gesticulating in small, calculated motions.  
I bit into the bread and nodded thoughtfully.  
“Can humans see cinematic records?” I asked, tapping my finger against my mouth. “Because if not, this is going to be exceptionally difficult. I’ve seen people die and I’ve never seen cinematic records burst forth,” I explained, washing down the bread with more tea.  
“You can,” he answered. “If the reaper allows you. If you can see me, you can see the records.”  
“What do they look like?”  
“Film reels,” he smiled. “Dozens and dozens of little film reels.”  
I sat back and sipped in thought for a few minutes, trying not to let the Undertaker’s constant gaze disturb me.  
“Well,” I murmured out loud. “Normal film reels are made of plastic. The only kind of “plastic” that is technically compatible with human bodies is silicon, because it imitates carbon. It’s just heavier.”  
“You seem to accept that I am a grim reaper and that time travel can occur fairly easily,” the Undertaker interrupted, fiddling with a small braid in his hair.  
I narrowed my gaze at him. “You didn’t seem bothered by the random atomic knowledge I just spouted,” I replied evenly.  
“You know more about chemistry than I do,” he argued.  
I shrugged. “And you know more about time travel than I do. So what? Now shut up and let me think.”  
Forcing down a triumphant grin as he stiffened in offence, I retreated back into my thoughts. “So the first thing to do is to test if the cinematic records are, in fact, silicon. Do you have access to free-floating cinematic records?” I asked.  
He hesitated. “I have access to cinematic records,” he replied. “Though they are not exactly free floating. They’re still attached.”  
My eyes widened in immediate anger. “You are NOT killing people for me to—“  
“They’re already dead,” he assured me. “The cinematic records are just still attached to their bodies. I will bring them in here at your request. But I’m warning you,” he held up a finger. “I only have five bodies with attached cinematic records. If you don’t figure it out within those five, I will kill more on your behalf.”  
I tensed.  
He smirked and folded his arms, leaning back in his chair. “So experiment carefully.”  
“What happens when I figure it out?”  
“Awfully confident,” he hissed. “You’re certain that isn’t an ‘if’?”  
I glared at him and whipped my cup forwards. He caught it without hesitation and slammed it down on the desk. The time it had taken him to focus on the teacup was just enough time for me to slide under the desk and grab him around his legs. Startled, he jumped back and fell from his chair, landing in a dishevelled pile of robes and hair.  
I scrambled up over him and wrapped one of my chains around his throat, securing his hair in there as well for good measure. Placing one hand on his chest to hold him down, I lifted my other fist as high as I could, constricting the chain around his throat. His hair parted so that one golden green eye shined up at me in rage.  
One of his hands darted to the chain around his neck, the other grabbing me around the throat and dragging me down so that our noses nearly touched.  
“Foolishly brazen,” he rasped out.  
“What happens to me once I figure out how to put a cinematic record back in?” I hissed, gasping against the pressure of his grip but not relinquishing mine.  
“I let you go,” he murmured, features suddenly relaxing into a coaxing smile. “I release you into the world. I’ll even put you back in your timeline, if you want.”  
I analyzed his features as he spoke.  
After a moment, I allowed my arm to fall, removing the chain from around his neck.  
“Fine.” I spat.  
The Undertaker released his grip once I had relented mine, and I stood over him for a moment. He smiled innocently up at me from the floor, nearly batting his eyelashes in an attempt to be coy. The look made me feel a bit nauseous.  
I glared at him and made to step back.  
Then suddenly I was on my back, my head pounding after being slammed into the desk.  
The grim reaper had kicked me up into the air and flipped the desk twice, wrapping the loose chains around its center three times, which secured me tightly to the top of the desk by my wrists.  
He leaned over top of me, hands pressing into my shoulders so that my arms were pulled uncomfortably between his grip and the taught chains.  
I whimpered and kicked at him, but he simply vaulted onto the desk and planted his knees on either side of my hips.  
“Don’t you dare—“  
“I advise you not to forget exactly what position you’re in,” he snapped, eyes ablaze with anger as his hand whipped across my face.  
I had never been slapped before. It was a much harder impact than I had ever expected, less like a knife and more like a punch. My head snapped to the side and I yelped loudly, cheek throbbing and stinging with the imprint of his palm on one side and my teeth on the other.  
“That was rude,” I chided, narrowing my eyes at him after recovering from my initial shock.  
“I never claimed to be gentlemanly,” he replied in a low growl, glaring back equally from an inch away.  
I giggled at him, relishing how much angrier his body stance became. Then, for good measure, I kissed him lightly before he could assault me again.  
He roared an enraged scream and flipped the desk again. It rolled all the way so that I was cocooned in the chains, and the desk was suspended awkwardly against the far wall, where the chains ended. I hung upside down, and the Undertaker laughed and approached.  
“Oh, look at that brilliance!” He chuckled. “Good luck getting out of that one, my dear.”  
“Fucker! Let me out!” I demanded, straining against the immovable chains and glaring up (down¿) at his leering grin. He crouched in front of me and poked my nose lightly with his nail. I recoiled so hard I smacked my own head into the desk.  
He laughed again. “That is what you deserve.”  
“Can’t hear you, all your words are upside down,” I spat.  
“I have to find a way tighten your chains more often,” he snickered, running his fingers down my sides. “You are nearly irresistible in such a state,” he purred, winking with a sadistic smile.  
Silently, I thanked the chains for holding the robes in place.  
“Fuck off,” I growled, eyes beginning to hurt from being upside down too long already.  
He placed a hand over his heart. “I was giving you a compliment.”  
Crouching further so that his eyes were level with mine, he tapped a reprimanding finger against my forehead.  
“Do not attack me or misbehave again, or the consequences will be far more dire.”  
With that, he stood and spun, no doubt ensuring that the hem of his robes would smack my face as he did so.  
“Toodle-oo,” he waved, heels clicking on the pavement as he sauntered to the door. “I expect that you have freed yourself of that mess and put the desk back by the time I return, which will be sometime tomorrow, I imagine...” he drawled casually, picking up the cup and plate that had been banished to the corner when he flipped.  
I grit my teeth and growled at him, sticking out my tongue as the door swung shut.  
I glanced down at my chains.  
I was stuck as fuck; time to start wiggling.


	3. Chapter 3

Somehow, I managed to twist myself free of the chains, one link at a time. The real challenge came in unwrapping the desk as well, clambering over and around it again and again so that it was no longer tangled. Great effort was required to shove the bloody thing back into place in roughly the center of the room.   
Exhausted from the day’s events, I slouched into my corner of blankets and dropped into a dead sleep. 

I twitched awake with the mortician above me, smiling maliciously.   
I tried to tell him to kindly fuck off.   
My mouth wouldn’t work.   
I pushed him away groggily, and he stepped back, holding up a needle and thread in the firelight. My lips. He stitched them together. My eyes darted to him in fear, my stomach twisting uncomfortably as I felt at the sutures with my fingers.   
Then he knelt next to me again, tall and dark and angry, and I cowered against the wall, which was suddenly a lot warmer than it should have been. More heat. I tried to scream but couldn’t, as the stitches held my mouth closed in a firmly sewn smile.   
“Now you’ll always be happy,” he cooed, long white hair draping over my vision as his hands pressed over my body. I couldn’t move. Like I was stuck in honey.   
The wall was too warm and getting too soft and then it started to drool on me, or he did; he was drooling and the wall was sweating and I was crying and my voice wouldn’t work—  
“Ouch!” He yelped. I kicked him in the side in my thrashing.   
“Ahg!- Get- hahh- away!” I screamed aloud, and suddenly the wall behind me was cold again.   
The door at the far end of the room was hanging open. Nearly burnt out, the fire glowed dimly in the background.   
His hands were only touching my neck, holding my head up in his lap as I thrashed.   
I stilled, dragging in huge lungfuls of refreshingly cold air and feeling at my lips with my hand. No stitches.   
“Oi, relax,” the Undertaker soothed, running a cold hand over my forehead.   
I flipped myself away from him and curled up against the wall with my arms wrapped around my torso.   
“Leave me.”   
“You were having a nightmare.”  
“I noticed,” I snapped. “Leave me.”   
I buried my face into the crook of my arm and wept silently in the dark. After a few moments, I heard him sigh and his footsteps faded away. I was alone again, with the embers of the fire and the concrete.  
I slept fitfully for the last few hours of the night.   
In the morning, (or whenever, since the room was windowless and only the fire determined how bright it was) I was nervous and twitchy around him. He brought tea in again, and I continually overthought how nice it felt to be able to put my lips around the edge of the cup.   
Today, his shiny white hair was pulled up into a ponytail, catching most of his bangs along with it. Avoiding his eyes carefully, I stared at my fingers and fiddled with my teacup.   
“What has you so bothered?” He asked finally.   
I glared at him pointedly. “Other than the fact that I’ve been kidnapped through time and forced into slavery?”  
Pallid lips pursing in momentary contemplation, he smiled. “Yes. Other than that.”  
I shook my head and dropped my gaze to my teacup once more. My warped reflection stared back at me blankly.   
“Come on,” he urged gently, reaching across the table and hooking one of his fingers into the first chain link on my wrist and lifting my arm. My eyes followed my teacup, which he focused so that our gazes connected just overtop of the cup.   
“Don’t be shy. Was it your nightmare?”   
I pressed my lips into a thin line and pulled my arm away from him. He didn’t relent, hovering my hand in the air between us. I turned my face away.   
“Please, let go,” I sighed, exasperated. “I’m sick of being dragged around like a doll.”  
No,” he replied easily, placing his chin in his hand and schooling his features. “You’ll do as I say and as I please.”  
“I will do no such thing,” I hissed in response. “There is nothing you can do to make me. Death? I’m not scared. Torture? I’ll do it myself!”  
“I’ve already proven my weapon effective,” he growled, glowing eyes boring into my mind with a glare. “So much so that I believe that is what your nightmare was about, yes?”  
“You can’t— you can’t do that!” I cried.   
“Why not?”  
I glanced at my porcelain teacup before smashing it on the table as hard as I could. The mug shattered, and he flinched back at the sound. Retrieving the biggest shard, I leapt backwards out of my chair and held it up in front of me.   
“I won’t let you!”  
He stared, amazed, for only a few seconds before collapsing into sickening laughter. Chair scraping menacingly on the cement, he rose to his full height and vaulted over the desk, taking a threatening step towards me.   
“And what makes you think that you can stop me with that?” He snickered.   
I levelled my glare and willed my knees to stop shaking beneath my robe.  
“Everyone has something they fear.”  
The reaper stopped walking, robes swirling forwards in protest, and he quirked an eyebrow. “Indeed,” he said slowly, eyes roaming my huddled stance. “And you believe that I fear a piece of a cup?”  
I laughed breathlessly. “I don’t think you stalked me for long enough, professor,” I mocked. “Because I was in Sociology back in semester one. I was a psychology student. I’ve been analyzing your profile with every word you’ve said, every action you’ve made.”  
Placing his hands on his hips, he tossed his hair back smugly. “And? Have you found that I fear spiders?”  
I grinned, feeling the fear churning in my stomach.   
“You fear being alone,” I concluded.   
His eyes widened. Then he laughed again, and I felt my foundations start to crumble. “I’ve been alone centuries! I’m a reaper!” He cackled. “What on earth gave you that notion?”  
“It drove you insane,” I whispered. “You’re trying to bring the dead back to life. There’s somebody that you miss. Somebody you’re trying to bring back. This is not a random quest for the masses,” I argued, clutching the sharp edge of the cup fragment.   
His eyes flashed and his smile tightened. Victory. “So what?”  
“If you try, I’ll kill myself before you get the chance,” I hissed, pointing the shard towards myself.   
He scoffed, ponytail whipping about as he laughed at me. “What makes you think I’m attached to you?”  
“Why did you come comfort me when I screamed in the night?” I countered.   
He set his jaw firmly. There was a moment of tense silence before he moved forwards.   
“I won’t be making that mistake again,” he rasped.   
I screeched and stumbled back, tripping over the chain and putting the edge of the cup to my throat. Too late, I realized I only managed to slice through the heavy layer of bandages he had wrapped so carefully. Laughing sardonically as the cotton fell away, he kicked the shard out of my hand. “I promise you freedom and you threaten me with your own demise?” He growled, planting his boot on my shoulder and forcing me to the ground before I could get away. Looming over me, he added pressure until I screamed, pain shooting through my arm into my fingertips.   
“I won’t let you hurt me again!” I sobbed.   
“How many times do I have to tell you that I will not torture you?”  
“What do you think this is?” I screamed, gesturing wildly at his boot on my arm.   
He growled, and to my surprise, stepped off of me and proffered his hand.   
I shook my head and scurried away from him on my hands and knees.   
“You picked me because you knew I had just enough emotional baggage that you could force me into doing your bidding,” I gasped. “That in itself intends torture!”  
He sighed and shook his head. “I’m not dealing with this right now. You have work to do.”  
He cleared off the desk and vanished from the room, leaving the door ajar in his absence. Picking myself up and bitterly dusting off my knees, I tugged on the chains again. Of course, the ring didn’t budge from the wall.   
With a defeated sigh I shuffled back to my chair and laced my fingers together, leaning on the smooth surface of the desk. Somewhere, out in the darkness of whatever laid beyond the door, the mortician was bumping into things and shifting... what I assumed were coffins.  
What he dragged back into the room made me tip my chair backwards. The pale corpse of a middle-aged woman was draped lifelessly in his arms, still soft from life. Her hands jolted back and forth with his movements. I could see a massive gaping wound in her chest when he thumped her down on her back on the desk. When I glimpsed the blackened rotting flesh in the cut and at the tips of her fingers is when I rocketed back, dry-heaving on the floor.   
“Holy shit,” I gasped. “What happened to her?”  
“I assumed you would be used to dead bodies,” he chuckled condescendingly and went to shut the door.   
“Not ones whose torso is ripped in half!” I exclaimed, getting back on my feet but staying far far away from the desk. “What did that?”  
“I did,” the mortician shrugged, glinting eyes fixating on me with a mocking grin. “Now watch, and you will see her cinematic records.”  
I hurried back to my wall, wrapping my arms around myself as the Undertaker spun once on his heel. A chilled wind seemed to scream through the room from nowhere, and a green aura darkened the room around the reaper as he spun.   
The magical green grew brighter, and I covered my face with my arm.   
When I looked again, he held a massive green glowing scythe over his shoulder. I stared on in horror as he swung it round and buried it in the woman’s chest, right back into the perfectly shaped wound that already split her sternum.   
I slid down the wall. As he ripped the scythe back out, old and congealed blood following in its arc, bright white bursts of film reels sprouting from the corpse. It was blinding, and I threw my arms up over my face.   
Then everything seemed to quiet, and it was just the mortician and I and the body, the reels slowly pulsing in and out of her in a calm and rhythmic motion. Never ending. Her muscles twitched and her eyes moved.   
He noticed me staring. “She isn’t alive,” he assured me. “But I aim to fix that.”  
“That’s... awful,” I whispered to myself.   
“Isn’t it pretty?” he murmured wistfully, the blade of the scythe dragging on the floor as he stepped forwards. Gripping one of the writhing little reels between his index and middle finger, he looked at me.   
“Come here.”  
Scientific curiosity got the better of me, and I crept forwards meekly, until I was within two feet of the glowing pulsating mass of records.   
“It’s... her memories,” I realized softly, watching the snapshots of her childhood drift by.   
“Indeed,” he said, watching my carefully. His face was shadowed, illuminated on one side only from the cold crystal light of the woman’s life. His eyes sparkled, white teeth glinting.   
Reaching out hesitantly, I wanted to see if they felt material or ethereal, as that would be an easy base to begin my experiments from.   
“This is... insane,” I breathed, childish joy at seeing something I was not supposed to elating me.   
My fingers went white in the ghostly lighting. The mortician’s skin was so pale already, he looked like a ghost. The memories parted and split, slowly repulsed by my exploratory fingertips. It didn’t seem frightful, but rather, like an ingrained magnetic force that would not allow me to touch them. I glanced to the mortician, who still held firm to one of the films. He grinned at me placidly. “You must be fast.”  
I hesitated, watching the smooth revolving movements of the records, calculating when to strike.   
My hand jumped forwards.  
Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with fear and sadness. At my touch, all of the records burst into chaotic screaming, and I was blinded by terror and bright white light. The primal fear of death overtook my senses, adrenaline shooting through me at a volume never meant to be experienced in a human life.   
I nearly fainted. Distantly, I felt my muscles go rigid before I slumped to the ground, falling back and scooting away from the desk in a daze.   
“N-n-n-no—“  
The mortician sighed and dropped the little reel he was holding. It floated calmly back to join the others, which had all resettled themselves into their ordinary rotations.  
“You must also be committed,” he murmured, walking towards me purposefully. “You must know what you are looking for. You must remember who you are, and more importantly, who you are not. It is all too easy to drown in the past,” he scolded, and I pushed myself back further.  
Stepping behind me, the Undertaker wrapped his arms beneath my shoulders and lifted me off the ground. I twisted in his grip, a toddler being punished. “No! Let go! I-I can’t do that again, no!—“   
My panicked protests were cut quite short as he carried me back to the corpse, pinning my hips against the desk with his, hands grabbing my forearms to direct my fingers back into the records. I screamed again, before having the air ripped from me as the records howled.   
Everything was chaos, sadness, and fear. Regrets. I saw my mother. No, was she my mother? No, and there I was as a child—  
Not me, that’s not me, dammit!  
Oh, but there was my dog! God, I missed him so much!—  
“I don’t— have a dog,” I rasped out loud, only dimly aware of the Undertaker behind me still holding me in place.   
“You do not have a dog,” he affirmed quietly, voice low and oddly reassuring in my ear. Something to center myself on.   
I felt the desk digging into my hips, felt his body pressing into mine, his hands digging into my arms, his hair on my neck, and his voice in my ear. I blinked out of the grey haze of crystalline and sepia memories, blinked back into the real world and glanced down at my hands, almost invisible in the pure light from the records. They still spasmed around my skin erratically.   
I sobbed once. I wanted to see Dale again.   
“Dale,” I called softly, my eyes glazing over again.   
The Undertaker spoke, voice reverberating down my spine. “You do not know anyone named Dale.”  
I nodded slowly and glanced down at my hands. I needed to grab one. One record, I needed to grab it, grab it I needed to, record one, one grab record needed I, to—  
My fingers snapped shut around one writhing reel.   
As soon as I grasped it, the other reels slackened around me and slowly returned to their placid pulsations.   
I let out a long-held breath, shakily gripping the one record I had grabbed for dear life.  
“Well done,” the mortician murmured after a moment.   
I allowed myself a weak smile.   
He slowly backed up and set me down, and I nervously supported myself on the edge of the desk, staring at the memory I had caught. It was a normal day. A memory of putting away the dishes.   
“I did it.”  
“You did.”  
“That was horrible!” I exclaimed sadly, twisting around to face him and pulling the reel with me.   
“Yes,” he agreed, stepping towards me and halting only an inch away. I leaned my head against his shoulder. To my surprise, he wrapped his arms about me warmly, holding me carefully while I gripped the memory.  
I was only granted the comfort for a few moments before he stepped away, reforming his features into a cold and condescending authority. “The process becomes easier over time. Now, get to work,” he gestured, pulling the chair out and seating himself across the desk from me. “Tell me what you need and I will fetch it.”  
“I need a way to cut through these so that I can take samples,” I replied immediately, glancing at the woman’s taught face.   
“And a pot to put over the fire, along with wood that will burn the hottest; I will need water, and something like tongs to pull the records back out.”  
“I can do all that,” he nodded, and he rose from his seat. “In the meantime, practise grabbing the records. You’ll need that skill, as not all records are as easily tamed as these.”  
“Fantastic,” I muttered, resentfully allowing the memory of normalcy drift away from my fingertips.


	4. Chapter 4

I pushed the wood around in the fire idly, ensuring that the cherry caught. The room began to smell floral as the flames slowly took on the dense hardwood, heat practically rippling out as the cherry began to burn. Using the little steel locker shelf-ish contraption the Undertaker provided, I dropped a writhing white snippet of memory into the pot and covered it with the heavy iron lid, placing it just above the flames.  
The mortician watched my actions from his chair, scythe balanced precariously against the desk next to him. “And just what do you hope to accomplish by cooking a reel?”  
“I’m finding out if they’re made of carbon or silicon,” I replied. “Or at least, based on either molecule.”  
“How does fire do that?” He asked, leaning forwards curiously and resting his elbows on his knees.  
I glanced at him over my shoulder. He had let his hair down.  
“Uh, well, carbon will cook and eventually dry out and burn, whereas plastic, like silicon, will not. If it does anything, it will melt.”  
“Fascinating,” he murmured, brows knitted while he stared at the pot in amazement.  
“Kind of, yeah.” I shrugged and lifted the lid, using the sleeve of the robe to cover my hand so I didn’t burn myself. The memory fluttered weakly at the bottom of the cauldron, and I covered it again and stepped away. My chains rattled with me.  
Resettling myself in my chair, I folded my arms on the surface of the desk.  
“And now we wait. Are you keeping me company, or am I to tend to the memory soup alone?” I inquired, gazing up at him.  
He smirked at me. “Oh, I’ll be here. I want to see the process.”  
“Or you’re starting to like me,” I winked.  
He scowled. “Don’t be foolish. You are a minor character in the events that shall shortly unfold,” he scoffed.  
“You did kiss me,” I pointed out.  
“That was for the sake of making you uncomfortable!” He snapped defensively, turning to face me in his chair and brushing his bangs back.  
I rolled my eyes before grinning. “So what you’re saying is, you were intentionally torturing me,” I drawled, tapping the desktop with my index.  
“I—“ he cut himself off and I watched with glee as his shoulders tensed, hackles undoubtedly bristling.  
I waited, an expectant smile plastered on my face.  
Then he slowly let out a breath and flashed his teeth. “In light of that argument, I suppose I must be growing fond of you,” he hissed from behind a clenched grin.  
“Then surely you wouldn’t mind kissing me again,” I winked up at him and traced my finger along the desk in slow looping motions. “Dear Undertaker.”  
He stared at me incredulously. “What on earth kind of role play are you attempting?” He demanded, narrowing his eyes. “What are you getting at?”  
I heaved a sad sigh. “Guess you were lying. Well, that’s unfortunate.”  
He spluttered for a moment before pulling all of his hair around one shoulder and setting his lips in a firm line. “Of course I wouldn’t mind,” he cooed with a light smile. “But I wouldn’t want to distract you from your highly delicate scientific procedures,” he gestured towards the pot as bangs fell over one of his eyes. “If something went awry, I imagine the consequences would be quite dire.”  
“Oh, it’s fine,” I quipped, waving vaguely at my experiment and giggling when his eye twitched in frustration. “So you don’t need to worry about that, although I appreciate the concern. I mean,” I drawled, spreading my hands across the desk and tapping my fingers lazily, still staring up at him in innocence. “Unless you’re nervous...”  
The pale mortician steeled an icy glare at me. “What the bloody hell has gotten into you?”  
“Ugh, what can I say,” I winked and fanned myself. “You’re hot.”  
Lifting his eyebrows, he pressed a fingertip to his wrist. “I shouldn’t be,” he murmured with concern. “My blood doesn’t move. I believe I have misunderstood something,” he murmured abashedly as I chuckled.  
“I meant attractive. Are you going to kiss me or are you going to procrastinate all day?”  
I could see it in his eyes. He didn’t want to, he really didn’t, but I was forcing his hand by showing him the wrong cards. As my words sank in, his condescending smile tightened once more.  
“Of course not,” he hissed. Analyzing him with hidden triumph, I noticed his black-clad shoulders all tensed up, angrily hunched forwards.  
I tiled my head up childishly and shut my eyes. “Well then?”  
Remarkably, I didn’t have to wait long. Stifling an irritated sigh, he shifted forwards in front of me, and his mouth planted coolly atop mine.  
As soon as I felt a breath ghost over my lips, my hands darted forwards, clasping onto the front of his robes as my chains rattled against the edge of the desk in protest. He jerked back quickly. I had him firmly, however, and though I didn’t doubt that he could easily break my fingers or rip his clothes, the mind games I was attempting to subtly introduce seemed to prevent such outcomes. There was a tense moment where both of us tensed and waited for the other to snap, still forced to obey the social standard of kissing with your eyes closed and thus equally blind.  
When he didn’t move further, I settled back slightly and drew him with me, tugging lightly on his robes to draw him in. I tried to make the relaxing of my shoulders as obvious as possible. His mouth remained stiff and suspicious, and it took a fair amount of gentle convincing to bring him towards me, but slowly I pulled him so that he was leaning further over the desk, my face tilted up to his. Immediately, I released my grip on his collar and carefully laid my hands along the sides of his face and throat, barely touching the edge of his hair.  
He made to pull back. Sensing his muscles tightening up again, I encouraged him otherwise with the grip I had on his jaw, drawing him back down gently. It was easier than it had been the first time.  
His mouth was soft and slightly chilled against mine, neutral but dedicated, if that’s any way to describe a kiss. I was undoubtedly the leader, as he had clearly not planned this and only wanted to show minimum affection to shut me up.  
I ran my tongue across his lip and he responded astoundingly quickly. Then he grinned against my mouth, and while I was busy trying to calculate what he was thinking, his pale hand buried in my hair and cinched a tight grip. The kiss quickly evolved into a hot and heated competition, tongues that I hadn’t counted on swiping and stealing moments of exploration.  
Somewhere, in the back of my mind, there was the distant question of how I managed to convince a death god to make out with me.  
Finally, when my abdomen was sore from holding myself at such an awkward angle for so long, I jerked back. Or tried. His grip refused to release, and I pushed against his shoulders, gasping for air by the time he actually backed off just enough for me to breathe.  
“You asked for this,” he reminded me, the sneer in his voice audible above my desperate gulping of oxygen.  
I opened my eyes and met his gaze, which was still uncomfortably close. The hand in my hair held me in a vulnerable position.  
“Leggo,” I said, with a slight grin, batting my eyelashes. “I gotta attend to the memory.”  
I knew I had won.  
With a quiet growl, his fingers abandoned my hair and he sat back heavily in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head as his silver locks fanned out across his shoulders.  
“Go on, then,” he said, eyeing me and gesturing towards to pot.  
I stuck my tongue out at him and dragged me and my chains over to the cauldron. Lifting the lid carefully, I was satisfied that the memory had ceased its writhing and was now lying on the bottom of the pot.  
“It’s going well,” I reported pridefully. “We just have to wait a little m—AAH!”  
His arm snaked around the front of my waist and dragged me up against him as I involuntarily jerked forwards out of fright.  
“Tch,” he murmured into my ear as he lifted me up and pulled me away from the flames. “You must be more careful than that,” he scolded, tossing me towards the desk.  
Stumbling over my chains with the awkward momentum the tall mortician had so graciously granted me, I twisted and caught myself against it, squeaking somewhat embarrassingly as his black robes swirled around me in a menacing cloud of corruption. He practically leaned right overtop me. Placing his hands on the desktop on either side of my hips, he forced me back just enough for him to tilt his mouth dangerously close to mine again. “We wouldn’t want you to get burned,” he finished, and I made to punch him in the face. He grabbed onto my chains and pulled my fists back down against the desk, immuring them there. His eyes were fixed on mine, undoubtedly watching my expression evolve into fear as he pinned me with his hips. Setting my lips in a firm smile, I paused and waited, my breathing the only sound in the room other than the gentle crackle of the fire behind him.  
My heart pounded. Taking control earlier had required all of my focus; now, my mind was all jittery and nervous. The edge of the desk was cutting into my wrists.  
The mortician leaned into me until I was laying flat on my back on the desk, and then his mouth was atop mine again. I wasn’t sure why was kissing me at this point— was it power? To show me up once again?  
I flinched when his freezing skin drifted over my throat. Wait, why were my hands still pinned?  
“Bastard!” I hissed, tugging on my arms and jerking my head away.  
He giggled sadistically. “Hmmmm?”  
I glared at his judgemental gaze. “You’re stepping on them!!” He was standing on my chains.  
“Oh, your...bracelets? Yes,” he chuckled, lifting an eyebrow. Digging his hips into mine harder, he leaned back and lifted his hands up to wave at me with a leering grin and a threatening glint in his eyes. “And isn’t it just terrifying, all the things that I can do with open hands?” He chuckled, leaning back down and unabashedly pulling one of my legs up over his hips.  
Petrified and shocked by his brazenness, I froze up for just enough time for him to lean back down and jam his slick tongue into my mouth again. I craned my neck upwards. Managing to break free of his mouth, I cackled and gasped:  
“It’s not very frightening when it’s consensual.”  
His hands stopped dead in their tracks about halfway up my ribcage. Jerking back, his eyes widened and he scowled down at me.  
I winked.  
Gritting his teeth, he suddenly grabbed my collar and yanked me off the desk. My head snapped back from the velocity with which he removed me. I yelped and grabbed onto his arms, desperately stabilizing myself as he held me above the ground. Kicking wildly at him, I managed to drive my heel into his ribs. He seemed unfazed and shook me, harder than any human would have been able to. I couldn’t breathe as my vision was tossed back and forth. It ceased shortly thereafter, but I was still dizzy, and I scrabbled for a white-knuckle grip on his sleeves.  
“Gah-st-o-p—“ I gasped.  
Then suddenly I was on my stomach, my cheek, hands and knees aching.  
“You belong on the floor,” he hissed, boot pressing in between my shoulder blades.  
“No torture, huh?” I spat, writhing uncomfortably. “Fucking liar. I don’t know why I expected better!”  
He screamed. If you’ve never heard a death god scream in absolute rage, let me tell you, it’s quite the sound; his gravelly voice echoed shrilly in the chamber.  
I had no choice but to wait, pressing myself against the cold cement floor for safety.  
Then he stopped. No further blow came, as I expected, and his weight on my back lifted off.  
I listened with bated breath, still facing the other way, with the fire and the desk behind me. His footsteps clicked away before his chair scraped across the cement again.  
After what must have been a solid thirty seconds of silence, I slowly turned over, trying to make minimal noise as I pushed myself nervously to standing.  
The mortician had fallen defeatedly into his chair, white hair draped across the desk as he laid his head on his arms.  
I edged around him and peeked into the cauldron. The memory was beginning to melt. Excellent. Silicon.  
I glanced over my shoulder at the mortician. He almost seemed to be weeping. His long black nails scratched lightly at the surface of the wood, and his eyes were still hidden in his sleeve.  
Silently, I lifted the pot off of the metal contraption and set it slowly on the floor. I slowly moved back to my seat, settling into it as quietly as possible. I think I was the only one feeling the tension in the room... I ignored it, hoping that the mortician wouldn’t suddenly snap.  
I laid my chin on my arms on the desk, shyly observing his statuesque form. Frosty strands of hair were within inches of my reach, and I idly began to play with them. He glanced up at the sensation. My blood froze when his eyes locked on me. There was a tense moment of lethal silence between us. His mouth opened and I tightened my grip on the lock of his hair I had, hoping it could provide some sort of collateral.  
He seemed to ponder my position for a moment. “What are you doing?” He asked quietly.  
I blinked. I didn’t fucking know. I was trying to figure out a way to bring the dead back to life, but more importantly, I was trying to manipulate a grim reaper to feel some kind of human affection for me so that he wouldn’t kill me off at the end.  
All the while fighting the memories.  
So why was I holding his hair?  
“I— I was trying to— to comfort you,” I stuttered awkwardly, blushing. “But, like, without touching you, because, you frighten me with how unstable you are.”  
His bright green eyes blinked at me. “...alright,” he murmured after a moment.  
“It’s silicon,” I added, and he stiffened up. “Sorry?”  
“The memory. At least, it’s not carbon- it melts. So it’s either plastic based, or some kind of weird glass, I believe,” I explained, twisting the little section of his hair around in my fingers anxiously.  
I could see him try to fight it, but he broke into a grin anyway. “Is that good?”  
“It narrows it down,” I shrugged. “I’m not sure where to go from here. I need another body,” I decided. “I think that I need to find out where they begin.”  
He gently untangled my fingers from his hair. “I’ll get you one. You feel confident approaching the memories?”  
“No,” I smiled nervously, and he nodded.  
“I will be here.”

I tended to the fire as the Undertaker brought our second victim into the room. As the body of a young man was laid out on the table, I turned to face him.  
“Do you know my name?”  
He glanced up at me through a thin shroud of white bangs as he arranged the corpse on the desk. “Of course.”  
“You haven’t used it,” I prodded, stepping towards the desk. This time, I was prepared for the glowing green windstorm of his scythe as he summoned it.  
He paused, scythe held over his shoulder. “Would you like me to?”  
I shrugged awkwardly. “Uh, I mean, yeah, I guess—“  
“Too bad,” he snapped, grinning at my surprise. “Duck.”  
I dropped to my knees as white records ripped forth from the body. They were screaming and thrashing, harder than the first ones, and even the mortician stepped back. Slowly, however, they calmed down and fell into their slow pulsating pattern of rotation.  
“There you go,” he murmured, dragging a chair away from the desk and draping himself across it, scythe precariously balanced in the corner.  
I swallowed. “Not until you use my name.”  
His features were paler and angrier in the harsh white light of the records.  
“Why do you play these games?” He demanded. “I do not understand!”  
That, for sure, told me that they were indeed also behind on psychological awareness. Thank god. That gap just might get me out of here.  
“Just call me by my name,” I instructed, lifting my chin defiantly and crossing my arms.  
“You’re not exactly in a position to be making demands,” he warned, rising from his chair.  
“Aren’t I?” I challenged, gesturing at the body. “I’m the only one that can do this, right? I guarantee anybody who’s more shy than me will be too scared of these records and get ripped apart. You should be thanking me,” I took several steps back as he approached. “For being so easy to work with!”  
He reached forwards and grabbed me by the front of my robes. Without being able to wiggle out of them, due to the chains, I was stuck in his grip, desperately holding onto his arm to make sure he couldn’t just throw me across the room.  
“You are easy to work with,” he hissed, and his fingers shifted in my collar until the fabric started cutting into my neck, choking me. “In the same way that every human is easy to work with. You all have a two-minute lifespan, and breathing just resets the clock,” he murmured, and I smiled up at him.  
“But you’re— not— going— to kill me,” I gasped, letting go of his arms in favour of ripping at the collar. “You— need me!”  
He hesitated. Loosening his grip, he softened his gaze and leaned back with a dark smile. It was not at all comforting.  
“Hmm,” he purred. “I do still have one weapon against you, however, is what you seem to be forgetting. One that you cannot match.”  
“Dude, just use my name!” I pleaded, not wanting to back down from my demands quite yet. “Where’s all that talk about not torturing me?”  
I twisted and strained against the grip he maintained in my clothes, but he seemed uninterested in moving. In the half-light of the memories, his hair glowed as much as his eyes, bright silver sparkling in the darkness.  
Then suddenly his grip was gone, and I stumbled to the floor, unprepared for the sudden change. He was on top of me before I had a chance to put my hands up.  
“This is simply what most women are for in the nineteenth century,” he drawled, and I winced as his hair dragged over my cheek. I threw my hands up to fight him off, but it was obviously more than easy for him to simply push them back to the unforgiving floor again and hold them there. “I do not classify it as torture. It is your fault if you react badly to it.”  
“That’s— so— fucking— wrong!” I growled through my clenched teeth, eyes still pressed shut as I felt him lean over me.  
He giggled. “Ah, yes, the perils of the old world. Your kind never is quite ready for them when I take you.”  
“Get off of me!” I yelped, twisting my hips and kicking uselessly at the air.  
“Stop talking,” he murmured.  
“No!”  
“See? Then neither of us receives what we ask for. How selfish of you,” he chided, and I blinked in pure shock. Is this really how bad the times were? Or was it just this sadistic prick?  
He let go of my wrists in order to run his freezing fingers up my rib cage and over my chest, stealing open the first button on the robe. I immediately tried to hit him again.  
“I’ll cuff them together,” he growled.  
“Never!” I shrieked, tucking my hands behind my back instinctively. Before I caught on to his plan, he grinned and flipped me twice, so that the chains on the floor wrapped about my waist tightly and secured my hands in place.  
In a moment of heavy silence, he smiled triumphantly as I stilled and paled. Bad news. This was bad, bad news.  
I tried to pull on them, wiggled them loose, but of course, they remained useless pressed between my back and the cold cement floor. As long as I couldn’t get up, I couldn’t get them.  
“Now, isn’t that pleasant?” He cooed, placing a hand flat just beneath my sternum. “You seem to be a little stuck.”  
“I’ll kill you,” I growled.  
His pale lashes fluttered mockingly as he rolled his shiny green eyes. “Please.”  
I craned my head back, repeatedly telling myself not to cry while his fingers made short work of the buttons on the front of my robes, opening to just above my hips.  
He clicked his tongue. “Come now, darling, silence is boring. Give us a little cry.”  
“You’re insane,” I spat, with as much venom as I could muster.  
He sighed and raked his nails up the side of my chest. I jerked and twitched as the sudden burning sensation ignited in raw stinging lines, but pressed my lips firmly shut.  
Chuckling, he gripped my side hard with one hand, digging his nails in again, while he grabbed my jaw with the other hand and forced my head to the right.  
I flinched when he leaned down. First, I was confused as he softly kissed my throat a couple times, but then the expected teeth joined and bit into my flesh shockingly hard. I felt my legs jerk automatically and I yelped. It felt like he was breaking the skin, sharp canines dragging across my throat where he chose. He smiled against me and bit even harder, and I thrashed and screamed again.  
“See, was that so hard?” He murmured, leaning back and running his hands down my sides again.  
I punched him as soon as he drew back, and his face whipped to the side satisfyingly.  
“Wha—how—“  
“Each chain can only unloop once in opposite directions,” I snapped, punching his shoulder as hard as I could. “While you were having a snack, I figured out which direction they went! Now get! The fuck! Off!”  
I grabbed onto his robes and used all of my remaining might to pull him off balance so that I could roll him off of me.  
With a surprised cry of victory, I managed, and we rolled several times as each of us struggled to stay atop the other.  
Then suddenly our waists were pressed flat together. We had rolled into the chains, and he had gotten tangled in them with me. An easy fix, but difficult if he didn’t have my cooperation.  
“Bloody Hell,” the mortician growled, glancing up at me.  
Before he could move, I planted my palms on his hair. A pretty weak defence, but all I had.  
It was enough to make him pause, analyzing me with his judgemental gaze.  
Then I noticed a shadow seeping into the mortician’s hair where my right hand was. I sat back. The Undertaker’s gaze followed my hand as I lifted my palm. A scarlet cut glanced across it.  
“Oh, I’m bleeding.”  
He reacted quickly, but it was too late; the memories all exploded in an uproar, whirling about the room before one of the film reels dove straight for my hand. As the mortician reached to cover it, the record sliced into my skin, and I blacked out instantly from the worst bone-cutting pain I had ever experienced.


	5. Chapter 5

I woke up on a couch, of all things. The air here was warmer than the basement I had been previously stashed in.  
I was longer than the couch, and my legs hung over the far end a little, but a thick quilt had been draped over me. To my surprise, I had been undressed and redressed; my skin also felt cleaner, which was refreshing after sleeping in chains for two days.  
Speaking of. My wrists were free.  
My entire right arm was bandaged, all the way up to my shoulder, and the bandages continued over my throat, collar bone, and right side of my ribcage. Not to mention, I was shirtless, although the bandages nearly felt like a shirt themselves.  
I could bend my arm slightly, as they were simple cotton wrappings, but further down near my wrist, some kind of hard casting material had been smoothed over the injuries.  
This can’t have been caused by the cut, I registered dimly, recalling the shearing pain of the memory ramming into my hand.  
I looked across the room, but couldn’t see hardly anything past five feet. My glasses—where were they? I felt around myself on the couch. They weren’t there. The floor looked to be composed of thin wooden slats that looked warm but creaky. There was a shelf on the wall to the right, as well as a door on the far side of the room. The small window on the opposite wall was pale grey, and I could hear rain tapping on the sill.  
Due to the notoriously squeaky nature of hardwood, I decided against getting up yet. I knew the mortician would be downstairs, listening for it.  
Analyzing the room, there was not much else in it. The ceiling was shallow, and the chamber had the aura of an unused attic. Slowly pushing the blanket back, I could see now that my legs were clothed in long and loose black pants. No surprise there.  
I slowly crept to a crouching position on the foot end of the couch and flipped the quilt out, laying it down softly on the floor. Stepping down hesitantly, I crawled (awkwardly. Try crawling with only one arm. It’s weird) to the wall. No noise so far.  
I repeated this process all the way along the wall to the door, taking my time to be as quiet as possible, the floors poised to give me away at any misstep.  
Finally, I made it to the dusty grey door and slowly pulled the handle open. No sound.  
I felt like a ninja.  
The stairs posed the next challenge, but there was a bannister running along the wall. Gripping that, I hung like a sloth, dangling from my left arm and sliding down the bannister and balancing a small portion of weight on the edge of the stairs.  
No noise.  
Victory. My bare feet landed on concrete and only one more door stood in my way.  
I pressed my ear against the wood, listening for him.  
When I heard nothing, I took a deep but silent breath and pulled that door open as well.  
I could just make out his blurry form, seemingly facing away from me at his desk; a fuzz of black and white.  
Realizing he was between me and the front door, I straightened up and pulled my door open wider.  
Casually leaning against the frame, I flicked some hair out of my eyes and cleared my throat loudly.  
I watched with glee as the mortician leapt out of his skin and out of his chair, flipping backwards over the desk and landing in a crouched position with his scythe in his hand.  
When he registered me, he banished his scythe somewhere into the mists of time and ran a nervous hand through his silver locks. “You startled me,” he breathed, striding around his desk. I did my best not to cringe away when he drew close.  
His green eyes held none of his previous malice from the dungeon. Instinctively, I lifted my left hand to block his touch as he reached for my injured arm.  
He smiled shyly at me, gently pushing my left hand aside and delicately wrapping his long pale fingers around my bandaged wrist.  
“There was quite a bit of damage,” he murmured. “Does this hurt?”  
He slowly lifted my arm straight up, watching my face intently. He was the only thing in focus for me, so close I could see the smaller eyelashes beneath his eyes, white even against his porcelain skin. It made it difficult not to stare.  
“No,” I replied, watching with apprehension as he raised my arm. “The rotation doesn’t, although the pressure from your hand does a little bit. I could lift my arm—“  
“Do not,” he warned, suddenly emphatic, and I flinched. At the involuntary contraction of my fingers as I clenched a fist, I screamed and dropped to the ground. He dropped with me in order to maintain his grip on my arm without twisting it off. My vision went blurry from the stabbing pain.  
“And that would be why,” he chuckled sadly, wrapping his other arm around the front of my shoulders beneath my chin and lifting me to my feet. I leaned against him, barely conscious, and he waited until I seemed a bit more stable to let me go.  
Sighing tiredly, I watched miserably as he slowly lowered my arm back down to my side.  
“The lack of rotational pain means—“  
“No bone damage,” I finished, glancing up at him before rubbing at my eyes. “Which means a nearly full recovery with the right physiotherapy.”  
He nodded, an appreciative smile tugging at his lips.  
“Yes. Until then, you are taking a break. I will of course, insist that you return to your work as soon as you are healed, but I simply cannot expect you to interact with the memories in this state.”  
A nervous weight lifted off my shoulders.  
“Are you... going to... chain me again?” I asked shyly. The words felt strange, alien and perverted on my tongue. It seemed more like a sexy adventure than kidnapping when I phrased it so pathetically. I shook the thought out of my head in self-disgust.  
Chuckling, he tapped his finger against his mouth and leaned back. “Only if you ask for it.”  
I narrowed my eyes at him. Not helping, prick.  
“In whose definition of “asking for it”?” I snapped, stepping past him into the room.  
“Why? What is your definition?” He giggled, spinning on his heels to follow me with his unnervingly muted gaze.  
“Get away from me,” I sighed irritably. “Do you have my glasses? I can’t see anything.”  
“Maybe that is part of my... nefarious plan,” he snickered, creeping threateningly towards me. I took an even step back for each one he took forwards, glaring up at him defiantly even as my back hit the cold wall. I flinched forwards at the gelid contact, never breaking away from his gaze.  
“It’s rude to take advantage of someone when they can hardly see, Undertaker,” I scolded icily.  
He planted his feet an inch from mine, a stark contrast between his buckled black boots and my cold skin. Stooping to my height, he blinked up at me. “Oh, my dear,” he chuckled. “You humans are so pathetic with your vision! Do you never learn to live without them?”  
“Not when studying at a university in lecture halls, no,” I returned evenly, squandering my offence. I knew it wasn’t going to help me to get riled up.  
He pursed his lips in contemplation. “Fair. Regardless, I have an equally bad prescription as you, my dear,” he purred, tapping my nose with a long black nail before folding his hands behind his back. “What do you make of that?”  
“Why don’t you wear glasses, then?” I inquired, pressing myself back against the wall in an effort to escape his claustrophobic presence.  
“I lost them years ago,” he claimed wistfully, casually leaning a hand up above my shoulder.  
I grit my teeth. “None of that answers whether or not you have mine,” I growled.  
His hair flipped back and forth a little as he snickered, pale fingers producing my glasses from his dark pockets.  
He flipped them open and perched the thin metal frames on his nose. Pulling a strand of hair out from the hinge, he grinned at me. “What do you think? Should I get another pair? Yuck, I’m already getting motion sick,” he sighed before I could reply. Gently withdrawing the specs, he flipped them around in his fingers and slid them onto my face.  
I flinched and my head snapped back against the wall. I grimaced in pain and he giggled, running a comforting hand around the back of my skull and smoothing down my hair.  
“I recommend against bonkin’ your noggin any more,” he chuckled, drawing back.  
I blinked a few times and adjusted my glasses. We were clearly in a morgue, as the floor and walls were littered with coffins and caskets of all shapes and sizes. I tried to ignore the smallest ones. The desk he had been reading at was occupied by a single chair, and three doors lined the wall behind it. The one I had snuck through still gaped open.  
I pushed my glasses up again. “Thanks, I guess...”  
Swaying gently as he walked away, he spun back around and perched on the edge of his desk, gaze suspiciously shielded beneath his lashes. “Of course, my dear.”  
Suddenly, a rolling, stabbing pain courses through my abdomen. I clutched my stomach with my left hand and gasped, staggering and almost going to one knee.  
“What the hell?” I muttered, glancing down in confusion.  
The mortician’s eyes widened as he seemed to realize something.  
“Oh dear,” he murmured, shyly tapping his teeth with his nail and glancing back at the three doors. “I haven’t fed you in two days!”  
I blinked. “Oh, yeah I guess so...”  
“Suppose indeed,” he chuckled, gesturing for me to follow him as he drifted into the other room. 

After I absolutely demolished two pieces of bread with cheese and some tea, seated at a small table for two in the kitchen, I seemed to recollect my thoughts.  
“Thanks,” I murmured shyly. Do you thank your kidnapper when he feeds you? I guess if he’s hot, right? Is that our values in the twenty-first century? Is approaching this situation with a modern mindset really the right way to go? If not, I would just wind up submitting mindlessly. Am I doing that anyway?  
He snapped his fingers from across the table. “Why are you staring at me?”  
Blinking hard, I blushed and glanced at my hands. “S-sorry professor—“  
“Pro—“ he didn’t even get through the word before he burst out laughing.  
I cursed loudly and glared at him. “It’s just because you introduced yourself to me that way!” I shouted over his laughter. “I was thinking about how the hell I got— oh never mind,” I sighed, leaning my cheek on my left hand and glaring heatedly at the wall.  
The mortician kept laughing, literally falling out of his chair and onto the floor in a bundle of black robes and white hair.  
“Shut up!” I snarled after a few more minutes, slamming my head down on the table.  
“Be nice!” He scolded, still giggling as he sat himself upright and pushed his bangs back from his eyes.  
“Says the one who literally choked me out in my timeline in order to steal me without my consent so that he could force me to perform scientific studies by threatening to rape me. Good one,” I clapped slowly, careful not to hit my damaged hand too hard.  
He sighed and smiled. “Fine, fine, don’t be nice, I won’t judge,” he grinned wider and slowly pushed himself to his feet. “There just may be consequences.”  
“I think there’s going to be ‘consequences’ no matter what I do,” I riposted, somewhat bitterly, shifting uneasily in my chair to face him as he suddenly invaded my space. He towered over me when I was sitting.  
He smiled and calmly placed his hand beneath my chin, tilting it up so that I looked up at him. I narrowed my eyes.  
“Quite the little prophet, aren’t we?” He murmured.  
I paled. “‘Prophet’ implies that it will come true,” I whispered.  
He quirked an eyebrow but said nothing. Leaning back against the wall, I swallowed nervously. A black talon scratched lightly along my throat as I pulled out of his grasp. My heart was beating too quickly, it was all I could hear. “I-is that your admission that you’re... that you’re going to just...t-take advantage of me?”  
“Tsk,” he murmured, running his thumb very threateningly across my mouth. “Admission? No,” he chuckled. “Warning, perhaps.”  
I hit his hand away. “Let go of me,” I hissed.  
The talons dropped. “I like your defiance,” he murmured, tone shifting into one of friendly appreciation. “It is refreshing compared to everyone who simply cowers and quivers before me in this time.”  
“Well, you are rather creepy,” I muttered, wrapping my good arm around my still-exposed torso.  
He chuckled, still standing in my way and still analyzing me from far above.  
“You must be cold,” he murmured suddenly, pressing his palm over my forehead. He was still colder than me.  
“I’m actually doing alright,” I assured him, stiffening in my chair again at the contact.  
“If you insist,” he murmured, holding up his hands and finally stepping away from me. “I will not complain about a lack of clothing on you.”  
I started to rise from my chair, taking care not to bump my injured hand on the table, when I stopped and stared at him incredulously. “... did you just admit to being physically attracted to me?”  
“Attracted to and tolerating are different things,” he hummed, spinning on his heel and holding up a finger as he walked from the room. “Do not hope for meaning where there is none.”  
I grinned to myself as the last of his robes swirled from the room. Gotchya, bitch. 

Whether is was my comment or because I was in fact shivering, the mortician produced a long knitted sweater that was remarkably comfortable and, of course, black. I pulled it on over my head and adjusted my glasses.  
“So, come here often?” I asked in an attempt to make idle conversation while. I carefully fitted the right sleeve around my damaged arm.  
He chuckled and slid the book he had been reading back into an open slot on a shelf in the main room.  
“How did you know?” He replied easily.  
“Ah, familiar faces...” I waved vaguely, draping myself miserably across the chair at his desk. “So, might I ask why you’re trying to bring back the dead?”  
His hand paused. “Oh, well... I have done it before,” he said simply, and I detected a hint of sadness in his tone. “But something strange happened; I could not seem to create real people. I could only make them walk again. I made them like zombies, hungering for souls. I do not want to make that mistake again. As such, I require your help to properly reinstall their own soul so that they do not hunt others.”  
I leaned my head back in the chair, eyes wide and lips set firm. “Alright then.”  
He glanced over his shoulder at me, so I kicked his backside lightly.  
“What the Hell—“  
“It’s a common form of basic appreciation in my timeline,” I argued, kicking his ass again.  
He narrowed his eyes at me. “I seriously doubt that.”  
Snickering, I held my smug grin and leaned my chin on my left hand, watching him carefully.  
Dropping the issue for once, he sighed and folded his arms, sitting lightly on the edge of the desk again. “How is your arm feeling?”  
“Well, it doesn’t hurt when I rotate it, and only aches a little to bend it, as we discovered, but I really have to focus on not using my finger muscles at all.”  
He nodded. “Most of the damage was done, expectedly, to your hand. The memories are attracted to blood,” he explained, flicking a lock of hair over his shoulder. “That’s why they’re dangerous. They have sharp edges and will sometimes aim to cut you in order to get into your bloodstream.”  
“That is disgusting and terrifying,” I laughed nervously, eyes wide.  
He shrugged apathetically. “Keep it in mind,” he advised.  
I just laughed again and glanced away.  
“You should take medication for that,” he added, nodding at my arm.  
“You’re fucking out of your mind if you think I’m taking any pills you offer me,” I scoffed.  
He raised an eyebrow. “It’s good for you.”  
“It’s probably a rape drug,” I chuckled anxiously and held up a hand in defence. “That’s good for you, not me.”  
He scowled suddenly and leaned back on the desktop. “If you think I’d need to drug you to do that, you are mistaken,” he murmured smoothly.  
I choked on the breath of air I was taking and coughed in surprise, suddenly feeling trapped in the chair. He watched me with mild interest, tilting his head as he witnessed my panic and inner debate.  
I stood from my chair, slowly, staring warily at him. “Well, Undertaker, I will be on my couch,” I said slowly, reaching for a random book on the shelf and stealing it.  
He tilted his head back, exposing the scar that ran across his throat. “Is that an invitation?”  
“Of course,” I winked uncomfortably and retreated, keeping my back to the wall and glaring coldly at him until I slipped through the open doorway. Maintaining eye contact with him the entire time, I slowly kicked the door shut before carefully making my way up the steps backwards, focused on the door.  
When I finally shut the second door in front of me, I sighed in relief and walked back towards the couch I had woken up on. The floor was as traitorously creaky as I had assumed. Listening to the light rain, I grabbed up the quilt and wrapped it around myself, before settling down to read the book I had snatched. 

To my surprise and relief, he left me alone the entire day. I heard him move things beneath me a few times, but I largely ignored it, assuming he was either preparing a body or making a coffin. The book I had taken ended up being about lake-water creatures, and I learned about the local fish and plant life. Bog weed, the like.  
The sky darkened and the rain only increased, now crying against the window rather than lightly spitting.  
Eventually, I heard the lower door click open, and hit footsteps clicked up the stairs.  
Folding the book closed, I carefully set it on the floor next to the couch and waited for him. The door swung inwards and my adrenaline spiked. On his free hand, he carefully balanced a small tray with tea and another small bottle on it.  
I sat stiffly, and the Undertaker walked carefully to the couch and set the tray down on the floor next to the book, crouching and handing me a cup of tea before taking one himself and folding his long legs up on the far end of the couch, sitting on the arm of it and facing me.  
I glared at the cup suspiciously.  
“It’s not tainted,” he giggled, reaching out and plucking the mug from my grasp and planting his own in my hand instead, leaning back casually and drinking from mine.  
I still glared, and he rolled his eyes before switching the cups again and sipping from his own.  
Finally satisfied, I took a slow drink from mine. Lemon. Fine.  
“What do you want,” I growled into my cup.  
“Harsh,” he whined, stretching himself out and crossing one ankle over the other. I turned to face him and mirrored his position, although my feet only reached his hips, and his boots nearly touched my shoulder.  
I lifted my eyebrow at him challengingly. “Well?”  
He sighed. “I rarely get the chance to experience living company. Humour me.”  
I narrowed my eyes but relented, leaning back and taking another long drink of the tea. “By all means.”  
He smirked at me over the rim of his mug. “All means?”  
“Any... convenient means,” I amended.  
“Convenient for whom?” He challenged.  
“Allow me to change convenient to consensual.”  
“You’re no fun,” he chided, grinning and shifting his arm before sipping his own drink as well.  
Before I could reply, he had banished his cup to the floor and crawled forwards, suddenly overtaking me and laying his torso against mine, balancing his chin on his hand and smiling down at me.  
“Holy hell, you’re—fast,” I squeaked, forcing myself not to move my right hand as I jerked away instinctively.  
He grinned, flashing his fangs. I rubbed the left side of my neck subconsciously. He noticed, gaze following my motion.  
“Tsk. I didn’t even leave a mark,” he murmured sadly. “I simply must do better next time.”  
“N-“  
He muffled me, lips suddenly against mine again as he leaned over me. I shrank back into the couch, the sensation of his hair tickling the sides of my face exceptionally familiar.  
He did not agress further, but continued to kiss me softly.  
“Are—are you drunk or something?” I inquired nervously when he pulled back.  
“Reapers do not get drunk,” he replied. “Or at least it is very difficult. You are shy,” he chuckled, gripping my chin more gently than last time and tilting my head back to look at him.  
Then he smirked. “You are allowed to make eye contact with teachers, you know.”  
I blushed furiously. “Shut! Up!” I seethed, batting his hand away. “I didn’t mean to say it!”  
In a flash, his hand pinned mine down to the couch and he leaned down again. I craned my head the other way as his mouth went to my throat once more, teeth grazing my flesh hauntingly.  
“Goodness, loosen up a little,” he laughed, bending his knee and sliding it beneath my thigh, urging my leg up over his hips. “Even Victorian women are not this shy.”  
“Do you make a hobby out of kidnapping them?” I hissed, eyes still pressed closed tightly. “Because I am certain that they would also be as unresponsive in my place!”  
He paused, mouth hovering over my ear. “Mm, perhaps...” he said slowly, and I shivered, the sensation of his breath over my ear strange and invasive. His quiet and triumphant giggle was not reassuring. “Oh, do we have a rather... sensitive spot?” He inquired darkly, emphasizing the amount of air he used. I laughed nervously, as I had a habit of doing.  
“N-no, of c-course not-“  
His tongue ran over the outer shell of my ear and I gasped, I actually gasped. I couldn’t believe it or control it. I never thought my ears would be sensitive, of all things... the mortician took his time, following me with his teasing mouth as I squirmed beneath him, pressing myself further and further into the cushions.  
“Nng—mmf—get—gah!” I stammered, thrashing and twisting away from him.  
He laughed and traced his tongue behind my ear before biting down, very lightly. I flinched and moaned at the same time.  
“Well,” he giggled, lifting himself up a small ways to glance down at my red and panting form, huddled shyly against the couch. “That must have been quite humiliating for you.”  
“Shut up,” I growled. “You’re the one doing it, so you’re obviously enjoying yourself too.”  
He blinked. “Yes, but, as you keep reminding me, one of us is kidnapped and the other is not. It is logical for the kidnapper to enjoy, not the victim.”  
I shrugged with one shoulder, committing to myself. “Judge away, creep.”  
I winced when he laughed again, and his hands slid up beneath my sweater.  
“God, your fingers are cold!” I hissed, writhing and biting my knuckle.  
“That is what happens when one’s blood remains still,” he agreed, nails scratching lightly at my sides as his mouth went to my throat, tongue running over my pulse point.  
“There’s a... a difference between toleration and attraction?” I challenged breathlessly. “Do you think you’ve maybe crossed that line?”  
“I’m spoiling myself with the riches of human nature and human flesh,” he growled. “It has nothing to do with you.”  
I sighed and leaned my head back. “You must have been a riot when you were alive, if you admit to just taking opportunities to indulge in sexual pleasures.”  
He chuckled. “The confidence comes with age.”  
“How old are you?” I inquired genuinely, and he drew back to pause and think. “Seven-hundred and... seventy? It’s difficult to keep track now.”  
I can’t say that I wasn’t surprised, and I raised my eyebrows appreciatively.  
As he refocused his attentions, his nails dragged down over my stomach harshly. I yelped and twisted again, breathing hard and instinctively pushing his hands away.  
“You’re not used to this, are you?” He asked, mouth hovering over mine. I glanced down at his teeth, ignoring the panic of claustrophobia at being stuck between him and the couch. My leg being up over his hip left me strangely vulnerable.  
“Used to what, being a hostage?”  
“You’re not a hostage, for I am not demanding anything,” he cooed. “I am merely taking.”  
“Whatever! Yes, I’m damn well not used to it!”  
“Perhaps I should chain you again,” he murmured, gelid hands sliding up over my chest. “It was positively enticing to see you in such a state... although, having you wiggling and moaning under me is just as good,” he added.  
“I am not—“ he cut me off by raking his talons down my side again, harder than ever. I threw my head back involuntarily and cried out, his nails leaving stinging tracks down my ribs.  
“You were saying?” He hummed, and his hands left my torso, ghosting up over my chest. Sitting back slightly, he placed his thumbs against either side of my throat and pushed lightly, no doubt relishing my expression as it evolved from mild embarrassment to fear as he lightly choked me. I waited, my heart pounding and my breath laboured. I hoped he wouldn’t make me go unconscious again.  
“Tsk,” he murmured, eyes cold and calculating as he watched me. “Come now, give us a good show.”  
His grip suddenly tightened and I clawed wildly at his hands, twisting back and forth as he lifted me towards him slightly.  
“I can feel your heart beating,” he cooed, digging his thumbs in harder. It felt as though it would bruise from the crushing pain. “Like a little birdie, stuck and afraid...”  
I gagged against his grip as fire ached in my chest.  
Then suddenly he let me go, and I fell back onto the couch unceremoniously, coughing and gasping for air. I placed my good hand over my throat gently.  
“Y-y-you’re insane,” I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut and pushing against his chest with my arm.  
“Crazy is what your time looks for, is it not?” He retorted softly, leaning back and pulling my other leg over his waist as well, so that our hips met when he leaned down again. I squirmed uncomfortably at the invasive contact.  
He raised an eyebrow and laughed at me. Clapping my hand over his mouth, I glared at him icily, thoroughly appreciating the way his chartreuse eyes widened sharply in surprise. “Don’t laugh,” I hissed. “This is humiliating enough as it is.”  
“Oh, I don’t think so,” he replied easily, brushing my hand away as his glowing green orbs focused on me. “I think I can make this far worse for you.”  
I flinched when he lowered himself again, pushing my arm against the couch and holding it there.  
The bastard went for my ear again. I thrashed my head back and forth, keeping him at bay, but then his free hand gripped my jaw tightly and held it to the side.  
I screamed in frustration and attempted to wrench free of his frigid grip, all to no avail. As his wet tongue dipped into my ear again I caught my breath and scowled, focusing on not letting my voice get the better of me even as I was pinned down.  
“Where’d that lovely song go?” He crooned softly, voice low and breath hot in my ear. Real ASMR shit. I shivered, and he chuckled, making me shudder more. “Come on, little birdie. Sing.”  
He sank his teeth into the very edge of my earlobe, a little harder than last time and I squeaked a little, twisting and pulling on my arm to try and break free of him.  
“Get away from me,” I pleaded, voice shakier and weaker than I had intended. Fuck.  
“Ah, almost there,” he sighed musically, and I blew a strand of his hair out of my eyes.  
I squirmed at further ministrations of his tongue, whimpering without control as he slid it further along the outer rim. He teased it lower, licking around the back of of my ear before suddenly pushing the wetness further in. I cringed and tensed up, jerking away as it tickled. I could hear my breathing accelerate, a detail I’m certain he did not miss. As I flinched away the hand over my mouth tightened its grip, holding me in place. Gah, it felt unfortunately good, and I couldn’t focus on anything else as his cool, slick mouth somehow teased my ear more and more. The familiar heat began to build in my stomach. Was I really turned on by my kidnapper licking my ear? What the fuck?  
Then his mouth covered mine, warmer now as his fingers ducked back beneath the hem of my sweater. His other hand was still occupied in holding mine down.  
The mortician began to leave purposeful kisses down from the edge of my lips to my collar bone, taking his time to bite and suck at each one. I laid still, pulling at my arm occasionally and forcing my eyes to stay shut. I didn’t want to see his smug grin, and I didn’t want him to witness my fear.  
The hand below my shirt ran back and forth across my abdomen, almost comfortingly, but the touch was so light that it tickled more than anything and I jittered. He noticed my hips shifting uncomfortably and giggled maliciously, leaving one last painful bite mark in the dip of my clavicle before sitting back and tugging at the waistline of my loose pants. I was suddenly paralyzed as his talons ran teasingly along the inner edge of my hips. I didn’t think this far ahead; everything he did came as a surprise. It was unnerving.  
I crossed my free arm over my eyes to stop from crying as I felt the cold air assaulting more and more of my hips, ever so lower and lower. Then he stopped.  
“None of that, now,” he chided, pulling my arm down gently. I glanced away, blinking tears out of my eyes. He took my face in his hands and forced me to look up at him. I must have been quite a sorry sight. Blushing, messed up hair, teary, and shaking.  
“This is selfish of me,” he continued. “And I’ll readily admit that. But the purpose is not simply to mentally hurt you, and I wish that it did not,” he explained calmly, and I stared at him. “So please, try and trust me to make it easier for us both.”  
I smirked, batting away his hands and rubbing my hand over my eyes. It was different anyway.  
I winked up at him playfully, trying to restore what I had broken. “Maybe I don’t want it to be easy.”  
He caught on quickly, chuckling darkly and narrowing his gaze at me suspiciously. “In that case, I can tame a brat as well. Do you think you can take me on, little birdie?” He mocked, suddenly rising from the couch and pulling me with him. “I happen to have things that can help hush a flighty songbird.”  
“I’m not a bird!” I scolded, unwillingly following him as he lead me to the centre of the room. “And you still haven’t used my name!”  
“Ah yes, your name,” he murmured darkly, stepping over to the shelves on the right side of the wall and reaching for what I recognized were bandages, long cotton strips like the ones I had plastered across my body.  
I stood where he had directed me shyly, wrapping my left arm about myself nervously and carefully watching him.  
“Y-you do know it, don’t you?” I challenged weakly.  
He spun on his heel, grinning wickedly at me. “Of course, dear student, I have seen it on your assignments.”  
“Shut up!” I snapped, feeling my cheeks burning. “You just caught me while I was distracted! I was thinking about—“  
“I know what you were thinking about,” he smirked, and I rolled my eyes. His footsteps resumed their pace towards me and he circled me slowly, creepily sizing me up. I curled over self-consciously and spun to match his movements, taking small steps back as he took them forwards. He broke the circular pattern and stalked towards me, and I backed up evenly with an uneasy smile. I was going to run into the wall again. What choice did I have?  
He caught up to me quicker than before, and I was overtaken faster than I had expected. I stumbled back, holding up my arm in defence. He looped a noose of cotton around it and cinched it before I had a chance to react, dragging me towards him. I yanked on my arm to free myself from the cuff. Chiming a mocking laugh, he wrapped a couple more layers of the bandage around my wrist, grabbing my shoulder and forcefully spinning me against the wall.  
Pressing into me from behind, he pulled my left arm up behind using the bond he had around my wrist. I leaned my head back and gasped as he wrapped the cotton around my throat and tied it off.  
“Troublesome not to be able to tie your hands together, but that will do,” he murmured heavily into my ear. I shivered and leaned my head against the wall. I couldn’t move my arm from behind my back without choking myself first. Inconvenient.  
Before I had a chance to do much else, he secured more cotton strips around my mouth and eyes, gagging and blindfolding me.  
I twisted around like a fish out of water as he did so, of course, but he hardly seemed to take notice; and if he did, he didn’t care.  
Effectively blind, I tripped and collapsed against the floor when he hauled me back suddenly from the wall and tossed me out into the room. Landing flat on my back as the air was knocked out of me, I stilled when I realized I couldn’t hear him. Had he moved? Where was he? I figured that I was on the floor of the centre of the room, but I really couldn’t tell.  
I listened through the heavy silence. Only my anxious breathing interrupted it.  
“Now then,” he purred suddenly, from directly above me. “What shall we do to make the birdie sing?”  
I’m not a bird, you psychopath, is what I obviously wanted to scream, but all that came out was an indignant hmmf of protest.  
He chuckled and disappeared again.  
I waited apprehensively for a few more moments. Where were his footsteps? Surely I would hear them on this creaky floor.  
A harsh cracking noise startled me, along with a sudden heavy and burning pain across the front of my abdomen. I yelped and curled up reflexively.  
The next blow caught the front of my legs and I kicked wildly. He whipped me again, across the chest and then once more over my stomach. I would never have expected being whipped through clothing to hurt so much.  
He relented after a moment, and I heard him giggle from somewhere off to my left. Curling up, I slowly rolled onto my side and pressed my forehead against the floor, twitching as the bruising pain lingered.  
The whip cracked across my hips, and then across the back of my thighs and I cried out again, cursing and curling up into a ball of agony on the floor. Flipping over further proved to be a mistake. As I sat curled in child’s pose, the whip landed across the small of my back, the end flicking around and snapping at the front of my ribs. I wailed and jerked forwards, and he laughed and whipped me again from the other side.  
My entire body now felt like I had just run a race. Every muscle was sore, I was breathing hard, and twitching uncontrollably.  
He whipped me at least five more times, aiming for whatever I exposed as he circled me silently.  
My shirt had slid up in my struggling. When the whip arced around my back again, the tail end sliced into the open flesh on my side. That’s when I screamed for real, nearly going unconscious from the burst of pain.  
He chuckled. “Whoops.”  
A few more blows fell and I winced harder each time, paranoid that it would bite open flesh again.  
I sobbed openly and uncontrollably now.  
“Lovely singing voice,” he crooned, suddenly right in front of me.  
I ignored him, shaking from his violence.  
Then he urged me onto my back with the toe of his boot and pressed himself on top of me again, smoothing my hair back and pushing his tongue against my throat.  
I caught my breath slowly, wincing as he dipped his head to kiss the welt on my hip lightly. The frigidity of his lips was comforting against the stinging skin.  
Crying felt so warm now; all of the endorphins countered the pain as I wept in relief. I felt high. It felt good. My skin was alive.  
His fingers ran through my hair a few more times, his mouth back at my damned ear again. I was squirming and still weeping gently; he held me there and toyed with my nerves until the heat that had built up in the bottom of my stomach was suddenly released. Too much. I tremored a few more times and sighed, spiraling back down from the high and now feeling stiff and sore in all my limbs.  
The mortician chuckled and carefully untied my collar, pulling my arm out from beneath me. I winced as he stretched my shoulder, but the movement came as yet another relief.  
Then his talons tugged off my blindfold. I blinked up at him in the sudden light, vision blurry with half-dried tears.  
I coughed and turned myself over. Stepping away from me, he watched with mild bemusement as I shakily pulled the gag from my mouth.  
“God,” I rasped. “That’s what you’re into?”  
“It would seem I am not the only one,” he murmured. “Keep in mind, I selected you for a reason. You fit the qualifications of everything I needed.”  
“An academic masochist,” I growled, glaring at the floor. “You intended to use me from the start.”  
He giggled and dropped my wet blindfold. “Of course. I cannot say I regret my decision.”  
Stepping back over to me carefully, he gripped the back of my sweater and lifted me to my feet, like a doll.  
Sighing, I leaned against him, exhausted. “I need water or something,” I rasped, voice dry from screaming.  
“Agreed,” he murmured, leading me back to the couch. “And I will put salve on that welt.”  
I nodded and sank back onto the couch, and he handed me his cup, which still contained some now cool lemon tea. “Lemon is throat-soothing,” I muttered. “Did you plan this?”  
He laughed and winked. “I may wish I was that clever. A fortunate accident,” he assured me, lifting my sweater up to inspect the welt. I looked too. No blood.  
“Just something to cool it will be fine,” he murmured to himself, and with that, he spun in a purposeful whirl of robes and strode from the room.  
I leaned my head back and watched him go.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you guys prefer short and regular updates, or a slightly longer wait for a bigger update? Whenever I do short updates, I feel like it seems as though the plot doesn’t move because it doesn’t always immediately advance within the short chapters, y’know what I mean? Trust me, we’ve got places to be with this story and we’re damn well getting there. Anyways, here’s a short update with a much bigger update coming tomorrow. Or I guess later today. Enjoy

I fell asleep questioning my morals and wondering if anyone at the university had noticed that I disappeared from time yet or not. My snooze was interrupted by the mortician when he pushed the door open, carrying a small cup in his right hand and a warmly glowing lantern in his left. The orange flame was a blinding light amid the dull tones of indigo shadows cast about the room. Blinking and glaring at him, I turned my head away in favour of rolling on my damaged arm, ignoring him and pressing my eyes closed.  
He set the lamp down on the floor as he knelt next to the couch and I heard him sigh.   
“Here.”  
“No.”  
“Why not?”  
I rolled to my left to face him quite suddenly, nearly coconutting heads with him. “What is it?” I challenged.   
“Medicine. It will heal your arm quickly.”  
“Exactly,” I emphasized, as condescendingly as I could manage. “So why would I drink it? ‘Mm, yes, let’s just drink this potion that will let me experiment on sad semi-dead people sooner!’. Get bent!”  
His expression didn’t change, to his credit, but his shoulders tensed and I grinned. “What? Is that the first time someone’s told you to get bent? Come on, you’re probably not even straight anyway—“  
Faster than I could blink, he tossed the small shot of liquid from the cup straight into my mouth and grabbed my chin, forcing my head straight back against the arm of the couch. I jerked and clawed at his grip, but was immediately distracted by the medicine. Why the hell was it stinging me?? Then it went up my nose and I realized it was strangely carbonated. I gave up before I choked and swallowed it. One cup wasn’t a very big deal, and I didn’t feel like choking on a shot of Coca Cola or whatever the hell he’d given me.   
As soon as he felt my throat move, his hand dropped away and he smiled, almost kindly.   
Lifting my head up, I glared at him. “Why the fuck was it bubbly? Did you give me pop? Do you guys seriously think pop is medicine right now?”  
Frowning in confusion, he blew a white strand of hair out of his face. “... the effervescence? It is simply for storage purposes, liquids retain their potency for longer if you carbonate them.”  
“Yeah, the Evanescence or whatever,” I grumbled, rubbing my throat and sneezing. It was bitter.   
The Undertaker burst out laughing and flopped over on his side on the floor. I covered my ear and winced, leaning away from him. “DUDE!”  
“S-s-sorry!” He giggled, tossing an arm onto the couch and dragging himself back upright. “B-but do you seriously not know the word effervescence? Are you not a university attendee?!”  
I felt myself blushing furiously in sudden embarrassment. Was I supposed to know the word?  
“Top of my class, thank you,” I hissed. “And never have I heard the word effervescence.”  
“It means fizzy,” he gasped, green eyes alight with amusement.  
I rolled my eyes. “You’re old. You’re using old words.”  
“Go back to sleep,” he advised, sobering up and patting my head, hard enough that it was more of a swat.   
“Hey!”  
“I was being nice.”  
“No you bloody weren’t!” I growled, trying to punch him in the shoulder and inevitably failing as he deflected my hand.   
Sighing in frustration, I glared down at my lap, the mortician still crouched and grinning to my left.   
“How long will it take for my arm to heal?” I inquired.  
“Should be approximately a week, with proper dosage of medication,” he offered, leaning over to glance at it.   
“What are the meds? Are you actually giving me pop?” I snickered.   
The mortician looked honestly befuddled. “Er... I don’t know what pop is, but if you’re referring to soda, no. It’s a combination of turmeric, chaga mushroom imported from Russia, and a small dose of venom. Can’t remember if it’s Adder or Orsini’s viper...?” He muttered idly, scratching his head with a single talon.   
“Venom? What the hell?” I demanded.   
He patted my arm to placate me. “Very very measured dose, you’ll be fine. It’s for the pain. Reduce pain, reduce swelling. Reduce swelling, and the injury will hurt less and heal faster. That’s what the chaga is for as well,” he smiled. “It’s a blood thinner and anti-inflammatory. Although, you’ll be very hungry when you wake up, and try not to get another cut or it will be difficult to stop the bleeding.”  
I blinked at him incredulously. “Now you’re speaking gibberish. So I should be expecting my fingers and toes to be going numb, yes?”  
“Indeed,” he nodded. “And nothing further, but you’ll notice that the pain will decrease.”  
I sagged back. “Fine. I already drank the shit. If it kills me, all the better,” I spat.   
“Come now, a little positivity,” he prodded, tapping me on the nose. I narrowed my eyes at him in silent riposte.   
“Eesh, speaking of venom,” he muttered, pushing himself elegantly to his feet. I suddenly felt very tired again. I shifted down on the couch and yawned.   
“There’s a heavy dose of chamomile too,” he winked, running his palm across the top of my head, almost... lovingly. Caring.  
“So you drugged me,” I muttered, eyelids already fluttering closed.   
The strange mortician chuckled. “Well, yes, actually, with an extremely potent healing potion.”  
I snickered. I felt a little drunk. “You actually call them potions?”  
“I do,” he laughed sadly at himself. “For old time’s sake, I suppose. Sleep. I’ll see you in the morning. Remind me to feed you, you humans are so much work,” he clicked his tongue and smiled kindly.   
Before I had time to question why he was being so nice, his orange-haloed frame disappeared from my mind and I drifted back into sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

I woke up angry. And I mean. Angry. I didn’t know why I was angry, but I was ready to kill anybody who looked at me the wrong way.  
The rain had dissipated and the attic was now dimly lit with yellow beams of sunlight that streamed in through the window. Dragging myself up off of the couch, I pulled my sweater up a little and looked at my welt. It was still white and raised and angry red around, but there was a glistening smudge of oil or something across it. The mortician had attended to it while I slept.  
I stretched my good arm and glanced at my right arm. I twitched my fingers carefully, and winced in pain. Fine. No movement yet.  
I drifted to the window and peeked out. A nondescript Victorian era building was across, and an abandoned alley stretched out before us and disappeared behind more brickwork. Stepping back, I carefully let the door swing inwards and proceeded downstairs, still entirely frustrated for no reason at all.  
“Good morning,” the Undertaker called as I made my way into the main shop. He appeared through a door to my right. “I was just going to come wake you. Here,” he murmured, holding up another tray. Why did he have so many trays?  
I scowled at him. “Did you poison it?”  
“No.”  
“Dammit,” I cursed, turning and falling heavily into his chair at the desk in the corner. Resenting the fact that I couldn’t cross my arms, I settled for putting my chin in my hand and glaring at the floor angrily.  
The reaper chuckled lightly and put the tray down in front of me.  
“Eat. It’s a butter tart, and for all your people’s sake I hope you still have those in the future.”  
“I don’t want it.”  
He rolled his eyes. “Eat and you’ll feel better, pesky little mortal.”  
I sighed as he spun on his heel and disappeared back through the door he had come from, upset and annoyed that I couldn’t garner more of a fight from him.  
Picking up the sweet pastry, I bit into it to taste before quickly demolishing it. Next to the tart was another strange little biscuit of sorts, more savoury, and I ate that too, wetting my mouth with the black tea provided.  
Almost on cue as I finished, the mortician returned, dusting off his hands. He lifted his eyebrows slightly. “Well that was fast. I’m impressed.”  
“Me too,” I quipped, frowning at the empty tray.  
“Feel better?”  
“Shut up.”  
“It’s normal for humans to become irate when experiencing extremely low blood-sugar levels.”  
“I feel like my instructions were pretty clear.”  
“How is your arm feeling?” He inquired, leaning over the desk to take the tray and glance at my bandages.  
“It still hurts,” I murmured, inspecting it as well. “I don’t feel any numbness.”  
“It will be working while you sleep,” he explained. “The medication, I mean.”  
I nodded. He drew back quite suddenly, as though coming to a decision, and I flinched. Eyes widening slightly, he burst out laughing while my cheeks went red.  
“I’m glad my fear so amuses you,” I hissed, pulling my knees up to my chest and tucking myself further into the chair.  
“Ah, it does, it does!” He chuckled, striding back to what I presumed to be the kitchen and abandoning the tray somewhere within.  
I fiddled with the edge of my left sleeve.  
“I’m curious,” he called, still shielded from view. “About you.”  
“That’s concerning,” I replied, gripping the arm of the chair.  
“No, no, not in the way you get curious about things. I don’t want to cut you open, I know what you look like on the inside, believe me,” he chided, stepping back into the room and gesturing vaguely at the bookshelves lining the wall.  
I grit my teeth, trying to convince my heart to stop panicking.  
“What do you mean, then?”  
His glowing green gaze settled on me, analyzing me as he tapped his teeth with his nail. “Hmm. Well, humour me,” he alluded, and I shifted back in the chair involuntarily as he approached.  
Before I could escape, the reaper gripped my uninjured arm and yanked me forwards, spinning me beneath his hand and holding me to him tightly. I yelped and tensed up, snapping my eyes shut. His free hand drifted smoothly onto my hip and he leaned his head over my shoulder, pressing his mouth against my ear.  
“See, if I do this,” he breathed, running his fingers across my hips and dragging his nails teasingly across my lower stomach. I shuddered in disgust and pushed against his grip.  
“F-fuck, stop!—“  
“You become all... disoriented, and upset,” he murmured, dipping his hand just below the waistband of my pants and scratching lightly at the flesh. I thrashed and kicked at him, beginning to panic.  
“Let—let me go!” I wailed, and his grip shifted to my throat as he swayed back and forth gently. He kissed my neck and chuckled. It felt hot and gross, heavy and suffocating.  
“I’m not even hurting you,” he murmured. “You were less abstinent about even the whip than about my hands on you.”  
“I can’t breathe,” I gasped, tears of panic beginning to sting my eyes.  
“And yet,” he continued, heedless of my complaints. “When I do this...”  
“N—“  
Suddenly he released me and threw me against the desk. I nearly flipped over it with the velocity at which he tossed me. Somehow, I managed to avoid hitting my bandaged arm, but pain bloomed across my cheek instead. I shrieked when he smacked the back of my head, causing me to bang my face against the desktop again.  
I kept my head down on the desk, breathing against the wood as red and white stars of pain blossomed behind my eyes.  
“Your head clears,” he concluded.  
“So?” I growled, picking myself up and rubbing my eyebrow. “Also, that bloody hurt, and you’d better apologize, fucker.”  
“I humbly apologize,” he snickered, bowing low and sweeping his arm beneath him. “But it was all in the name of science.”  
“Eat dirt.”  
“That’s not very nice,” he clicked his tongue and straightened up, smiling mockingly down at me.  
I glared at him, pressing my hand flat against my forehead as an aftershock of pain flashed across it. “That’s the point.”  
“Regardless. My tests reveal that you are infinitely more traumatized of intimacy rather than pain.”  
“Yeah, I knew that, thanks,” I growled. “It’s what happens when human intimacy becomes a weapon in someone’s hands.”  
“Yet you not only can easier tolerate pain, but you take it as... well, like a sport, an activity that hurts but you enjoy it regardless, unless forced into it, of course. Masochists are strange,” he hummed to himself.  
I scoffed. “You’re such a faker.”  
He blinked, eyes igniting in offence. “Sorry?”  
I reached up and grabbed him by the hair before he could react, dragging him down to my level. He yelped and grabbed onto my arm reactively, nearly breaking it from how hard he gripped it. His gaze locked on mine.  
“And this is meant to prove what, exactly?” He muttered angrily.  
I leaned back with a grin. “Most sadists have a masochistic side,” I leered. “Don’t act like you don’t understand me. You picked me. You knew what you were looking for.”  
He ripped free of my grip, grinning and dusting off his robes dramatically. “Well, isn’t that just a dandy accusation.”  
“Old words,” I chided. “Nobody says dandy anymore.”  
“I would advise you to remember that you are in my timeline,” he hissed, bending down so his nose was level with mine. I maintained my glare. “Not yours.”  
Backing off slowly, he swayed over to one of the shelves and plucked up a black top hat.  
“I’m going out,” he announced.  
I felt a spike of panic. “Where? Why?”  
He spun on his heel, tipping the hat onto his head and securing his bangs over his eyes. “That’s none of your concern. I won’t be back for an hour or two, so behave,” he scolded, clasping his hands behind his back and grinning maliciously at me. I shrivelled back. He seemed far more monstrous without his eyes. “If you leave, you’ll die, you understand? London is a vicious place, and you sound different, look different, act different. If there’s one thing people want to destroy,” he cooed, sauntering to the door and twisting open a deadbolt. “It’s difference.”  
“I—I’ll stay here,” I murmured shyly, sinking down in his chair again and rubbing my arm idly. “I’ll stay here.”  
His smile seemed to soften. Or it was my imagination. “Excellent.”  
The door swung shut and suddenly his oppressively judgemental presence was gone, the shop void of his blackness.  
He... left the door unlocked. 

I stared at the unlocked door, rubbing my hand back and forth over the surface of the desk in front of me in contemplation. He might be waiting right on the other side.  
But why would he bother to test me? To trick me? If he wanted to imprison me again, he simply could, without all of this nonsense.  
Was it to give me a choice?  
Was he feeling remorse?  
I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. I didn’t appreciate not understanding his motives.  
Grr.  
The door was open. That should be all that mattered to me. I should’ve just gone up there and opened it and ran.  
But then what? I was lost in the Victorian Era, in London, and the only chance I had at getting home was lying within the mortician.  
Well, fuck.  
Do I stay, or do I leave?  
Grr.  
I glanced down at my hand, continuing its trails back and forth across the desktop.  
I curled in my nails, glaring hard at my white-knuckle grip.  
Why was I still here. Why hadn’t I leapt out that door as soon as the offer was presented?  
Stockholm syndrome?? I mentally scolded myself. No. I wanted nothing to do with him; but I wanted to go home. I wanted to go back to my timeline.  
I pressed my fist across my eyes.  
“He had no right, he had no right to take me!” I wailed, my own tears taking me by surprise as they poured freely.  
After a few more minutes of deliberating, I wiped my cheek and shot the door a scathing look. Suddenly coming to a decision, I kicked the chair behind me back, wincing as it clattered loudly in the silent morgue.  
Slowly, one step at a time, I crept closer to the door. Closer to that unlocked handle, to that open world.  
The coffins standing open next to the entrance stood like guards, tall and final.  
About one foot away, I paused.  
Deep breath.  
Everything would be fine. Things might be hard, but I could garner a new life. I just. Had. To. Get. Away.  
I stepped forwards again and felt something snap beneath my foot, startling me.  
“What—“  
A wire.  
I jumped back, but the door banged open faster than my muscles moved. The heavy oak smacked into me with more force than a door should have been able to, and I shrieked as I stumbled into the heavy marble coffin to the left. I hit the cushions and the casket shifted about an inch with my momentum, scraping on the concrete floor.  
The lid swung shut behind me with a loud thump, and I was pitched into darkness.  
Of course, I immediately shoved against the lid, but without the use of my right arm, there was no way I had the strength to move the heavy marble. The mortician must have balanced it perfectly to make it swing closed at any movement.  
Throwing my shoulder against the inside of the lid, I braced myself against the cushions of the back, but the narrow confines were so restrictive, it was hopeless.  
Sighing, I leaned my head forwards against the lid and groaned, shoulders sagging.  
“Bitch,” I whispered.  
If that wasn’t just...dandy. 

The air was beginning to get hot, and although I had done everything I could to calm my breathing and take in as little as I could as possible, an hour— or god forbid, two hours, I don’t know— was too long to survive on a coffinful of air for. My legs were tired and aching from standing in the awkward position for so long, but finally, finally, the door of the shop creaked open.  
I lifted my head and opened my eyes, although the claustrophobic box was just as dark.  
“Dammit,” I growled, and I heard him laugh further into the shop.  
“Good trap, yes?” He called, and I was surprised at how sound-proof the casket was. His voice sounded like it was far beneath me, underwater.  
“Let me out!!” I shouted, pounding my fist against the door once half-heartedly.  
“Ask nicely.”  
Glaring venomously through the lid, I sighed and cursed under my breath, debating just dying in here.  
“Please,” I called, hackles bristling. “Let me out.”  
“Get yourself out.”  
“I can’t open the lid, believe me,” I spat bitterly. “I tried.”  
I flinched as the lid was suddenly dragged open. The mortician held it, leaning against the edge of coffin and still effectively trapping me in. Suddenly, I wished there were no cushions so that I could escape further back in the box. I sighed and took a deep breath of cool air, blinking against the sudden light.  
“I must say I’m rather disappointed,” he murmured, eyes glittering dangerously as he leered down at me. “Escape, I would have expected... but lying to me?” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head sadly. “That is truly unfortunate.”  
I blinked tiredly and fell towards him. He wrapped one arm around my shoulders and pulled me from the coffin before dropping me on the floor unceremoniously. Collapsing, I barely caught myself on my left arm.  
“I should put you back in the basement, as you’ve made it clear you cannot be trusted. After all, your arm does not care where it heals,” he sighed, walking calmly away from me as I laid on the concrete.  
I panicked. “Coward!” I challenged. “You’re just upset that I didn’t want to stay! Well guess what? It takes more than a magic potion to make your fucking kidnapping victim fall for you, prick!”  
His shoulders tensed and he halted halfway through a step, as though someone had just poured ice down his back.  
My heart, which was already hammering quite fearfully, nearly damn exploded when I felt the ghostly wind whipping up around me. I flattened myself on the floor, glancing up as the great scythe swiped through the air above me, slicing into the marble coffin and bisecting it cleanly. As the top half of the coffin toppled over, exploding marble rained down around me and I pressed my arm over my face.  
“Aah! What the hell?!” I yelped, glaring up at him.  
His cold gaze levelled at me, the scythe still floating above my head.  
“You are nothing but a hassle,” he hissed icily. “I am rethinking my offer to allow you to live after you complete your purpose.”  
“Then kill me!” I screamed, slamming my hand down weakly on the floor. “Get rid of me! Get it over with! I won’t help you any more!!”  
To my surprise, he grit his teeth and swung the scythe again, directly at me. I shrieked and covered my face instinctively as the blade whistled through the air. Instead of the scythe burying itself into my spine, my sweater constricted around me tightly and I was lifted off the floor, breath being ripped from me as I was whipped across the room.  
I hit the desk and gasped, vision going white as pain exploded in my abdomen. Slumping to the floor, I curled my arm around myself and pressed my forehead to the smooth cement, fighting a sob as tears leaked from my eyes.  
Then the howling wind disappeared, and the room quieted. I barely paid it mind, eyes squeezed shut in a grimace of agony.  
“—ngh— ah! Hah,” I gasped, fingertips curled desperately into my sweater as I tried not to blackout.  
The mortician clicked his tongue, heels tapping menacingly on the floor as he approached me.  
“You humans are so pathetically fragile,” he chuckled humourlessly, grabbing the back of my sweater and pulling me off the floor.  
“—agh! Let—me go!” I gasped.  
“Let me see.”  
He plopped me down on the desk. I yelped when the back of my head connected hard against the surface, suddenly facing the ceiling. His glittery green eyes fixed on my abdomen as he leaned over me. Thoughts of the bodies on the table in the basement flashed through my mind, and I felt an empty pang of empathy and guilt.  
I stared blankly at the cold and dark ceiling, gasping for air as he pushed my arm up over my head and lifted my sweater up to my ribs. I flinched when his freezing fingertips tapped lightly on my stomach, smoothing across my skin.  
“Gah—get away from me!” I kicked at him, wincing as the muscles in my abdomen complained at the action.  
The mortician batted my legs down, harder than he should have been able to.  
“Cut it out,” he growled, still inspecting whatever injury I had acquired. “Only children have temper tantrums.”  
“Why don’t you—tell that—coffin back there about temper tantrums?” I spat, gasping and stifling a wail as more pain spasmed through my abdomen.  
For the first time, his gaze shifted up to meet mine. I had never been so afraid. In the pale darkness, his lips tightened and his hands stilled. I couldn’t tell what he was contemplating, but the anger radiating from his entire demeanour was suffocating.  
Then he leaned away.  
“Stay there,” he instructed, and I thumped my head back on the desk, relieved that he didn’t... do anything.  
I focused on my breathing, carefully touching my stomach as I laid flat on the desk. Something in my abdomen hurt in a disgusting heavy pain, right where I had hit the edge of the desk.  
I distantly heard the mortician shifting things. A door opened and closed, something was dragged, whatever else.  
Gasping as I poked lightly at the spot that seemed to be aching the most, I pressed my eyes closed and swallowed, suddenly struggling. My throat felt too warm. I was thirsty.  
Something glimmered, streaming a new paleness into the dim shop. I lifted my head. I recognized that scintillating white light.  
“What are you doing?” I called fearfully.  
The mortician reappeared through the third door on the left, through which the shimmering light was shining.  
Banishing his scythe into the air, he stalked back towards the desk.  
“Well,” he giggled, spreading his hands as he stepped towards me. “Since you’re so insistent on being disposed of, I decided that I may have a better use for you given the circumstances.”  
“What? I—“ I was cut off when he grabbed my by the throat and dragged me off the desk. Hauling me up, he wrapped his other arm around my waist and lifted me. I screamed at the pressure.  
Dragging me back towards the door, he forced me to stand upright in the entryway. Staring down into the depths in terror, I could see the new body with memories pulsing in and out of it on the desk, waiting. My chains laid abandoned on the floor further back, shining dimly in the ghostly light of the reels.  
“You have internal bleeding,” he chuckled, and my eyes widened. Of course. “I don’t know how the records act around someone with internal bleeding. I’m curious. All of your open wounds are covered, but,” I felt him shrug behind me. “I guess we’ll see.”  
With that, he dropped his hold on me. I tried to stumble back from the door, but he planted his boot between my shoulder blades and kicked me down. I fell the short drop and landed on my knees in the darkness. The cinematic records immediately took interest in me, but I pressed my mouth closed firmly, trying not to breath in order to contain the scent of blood. My heart hammering in panic was not helping, and I had to fight not to cry out as a mild ache pulsed through my abdomen with every beat.  
I glanced over my shoulder. The Undertaker leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms and observing with mild disinterest.  
The records spasmed once, steadily drifting out of the body and reaching towards me.  
I dragged myself back along the floor, adrenaline flushing through my veins as the memories advanced. Recalling the pain of the single reel shoving its way up my arm, I pressed my lips together until it hurt— I was beginning to taste blood in my mouth, coming up my throat.  
Steadily, the records strained against where they were stapled to the corpse, stretching and shifting and pulling. I winced when they dragged the body right off of the desk, the dead skin smacking into the floor with a disgusting thwack.  
The glassy eyes of the cadaver stared at me as the records pulled it in slow shuffling motions across the floor. It was still laying flat on its back, dead and limp, but the records were growing more insistent, and as I backed myself into a corner, one of the memories floated right up to my face, drifting lazily towards my mouth. I slapped my hand over my lips and kicked the little film reel. It shuddered away, but didn’t seem perturbed. Others drew up around me, and the light was nearly blinding. I could see all of the little images in the memories. One was of a smiling child with blonde hair, holding a card out. My heart fluttered in sadness, and tears began to drip down my cheeks uncontrollably. Overwhelmed by the emotions of the corpse and my own fear, I was having difficulty breathing, and could feel blood pooling in my mouth. The edge of the memory poked more insistently at the back of my hand, cold.  
I kicked them all away in a sudden twisting motion. With the second of relief this granted me, I spat blood onto the floor and rolled away.  
Instantly, the room was drowned in the screams of the dead as the memories wailed and thrashed before diving for the puddle of blood I had abandoned.  
I heard the mortician laugh maniacally as I ran back to the desk, pressing my lips back together and kneeling next to the body. Was there an off switch?? I needed to find one!  
“That was clever,” he called mockingly. “But ultimately, the worst decision you could have made.”  
Shortly, I realized why. The body next to me twitched as all of the records writhed again.  
They lifted to face me, and the room was illuminated in a violent shade of pink. They had smeared themselves with my blood, and now it was gone from the floor.  
“See, now they have a taste of you, and you only. You won’t escape them now. You’re so clever and stupid at the same time, you really are absurd—“  
“Shut up!” I screamed at him, and the memories exploded and dove for my mouth. Bolting to my feet, I batted them away from me and dashed across the room. They followed in hot pursuit, and the Undertaker chuckled in amusement at the sight of me running circles around the room to buy myself time. My foot caught on something in the strange pink light, and the chain rattled beneath me as I hit the ground hard.  
Burying my mouth in the crook of my arm, I stared wildly at the reels.  
Their glow was oppressive as all of them whipped around me, covering my vision and surrounding me in a swirling storm of anguish and regret.  
Then, as the shrieking, writhing mass tightened, one of the memories dove forwards and stabbed into my stomach. The sharp edge instantly sliced my skin open. All of the memories converged, plunging into my abdomen as more blood was drained out.  
I screamed once as the shearing pain ripped through me, and thankfully, I passed out.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooo I’m back. Sorry it took so long, every time I have free time I start thinking about a couple people that died recently so it’s been kinda hard. But here’s two chapters! Boom boom! I also updated chapter 5. Nothing major I just fixed sentence structure and stuff because I didn’t like it. It sucked! The first half of chapter 5 was so bad, how do you stand reading it?? Anyways, occasionally I notice my poor performance and fix it up a little, just know that when you think something sucks, trust me, I think it sucks too. Anywho enjoy! I’m going to try to update Hotel California next here.

T..h..e... s..smell...  
That’s the first thing that your brain processes when you wake up from unconsciousness.  
The familiar scent of dust; of wood and tea and the faint hint of something dead.  
Fantastic.  
The first conscious feeling was of surprise. I was surprised that I was still alive, to be honest. Lying there, on whatever soft thing had been provided, I kept my eyes closed and tried to feel my body out. See what I had left. My pulse still beat regularly in my throat and in my ears, and it seemed that I could move my fingers and toes.  
Peeking open my eyes finally, I was not surprised to find myself situated back in the attic. However, instead of the couch, I was laid out across the floor on top of several blankets with a light sheet drawn over me, a strange assortment of jars and bandages surrounding my little square of hardwood.  
Judging by the dark purple window I was facing, it was late evening. I wondered idly how long I had been unconscious for.  
Then I checked my stomach. Gently lifting my arms, I was glad to see that they were not any more bandaged than they had started. Using my left hand, I carefully pushed back the sheet that shrouded my torso.  
All I could see were bandages. About six square centimetres of open flesh remained exposed on the upper left side of my chest. The rest of my stomach was wrapped very precisely with the same type of tape that wound around my arm and right clavicle.  
Leaning my head back on the floor, I took a tentatively large breath in. I could feel a little bit of strain on my stomach, but no terribly debilitating pains. The mortician must have done something to speed the healing time.  
Ever so gently, I eased myself up into a sitting position, arms falling heavily into my lap as I glanced about the room. For the first time, I noticed him. The reaper was lying haphazardly across the couch a few feet to my right, long robes discarded on the floor between us. His hair was a mess. His fingers were bloodstained, and he was fast asleep, arm draped awkwardly across the side of the couch and pale face pressed against it in exhaustion.  
I chuckled lightly at the sight, although the fact that his white undershirt was now the colour of rust was a little unsettling.  
I wondered what the hell kind of medication he gave me as I stood up without much trouble. And why the hell hadn’t he given it to me for my arm? Which, as I checked, was already feeling better, and I could move my fingers and elbow without trouble. The bandages seemed to be only for show now, unless he knew something I didn’t.  
Either way, I decided the mysteries could wait.  
Swaying slightly as I steadied myself on my feet, I pursed my lips and contemplated what my next act was.  
So the psychopath had kidnapped me, threatened me, stepped on me of all things, gave me internal bleeding AND THEN decided to just let the memories have at it with that information...  
But then he had stitched me up, it so seemed, and performed some kind of magic ritual that made me right as rain.  
Probably just intends to use me again, I thought bitterly. I should just get out now.  
Then my shoulders fell and I sighed, stooping to pick up the light blanket and dragging it along the floor silently to him.  
Grabbing it—with both hands, which was wonderful—I flipped it upwards and draped it over his pallid form, appreciating how... interesting it was to view him so closely under nearly no stress.  
His eyelashes were as white as his hair. The dark scar that ran up across his face was indeed scratched into his skin rather than raised... either he was already a... “god” or whatever the hell he was when it happened, or he was malnourished somehow, based off of what I knew about atrophic scars.  
What that meant, I didn’t know. I imagined many people in pre-Victorian times were malnourished.  
Creeping to the side of the room as to avoid the inconvenient squeaking of the floorboards, I quietly twisted the door handle and snuck down the steps.  
Reaching the main shop, I couldn’t help but glance at the door. Analyzing it for another trap, my eyes quickly settled on the bell that now hung above it. That bitch. Now he would surely hear me open it, and I doubted I could actually physically outrun a grim reaper, no matter how many times I’d seemed to have avoided death before.  
My hand actually touched the knob of the door to the basement before I quickly thought better of it. I doubted my morbid curiosity would produce anything benevolent. Instead, I wandered into the kitchen. It wasn’t particularly interesting; there were some cabinets, and a little two-person table. I found a cookie jar containing bone-shaped biscuits in the far right cupboard and quickly commandeered it. I was starving.  
Making my way back up the steps with my hand methodically transferring cookies directly from the jar into my mouth the entire way, I sat myself on the floor next to the couch and leaned back against it, feeling oddly optimistic. Being alive to taste cookies was a pretty positive perspective compared to what could have happened, and I decided I could rip the mortician a new one about it later, and for now I simply wasn’t going to worry about what didn’t occur.  
I was on my... probably my 16th cookie when his voice in my ear startled me enough to choke on the bite I had just taken.  
“Do you find them enjoyable?”  
“When I’m starving to death,” I replied, attempting to smoothly cover my surprise as I crammed the rest of the cookie in my mouth before he could stop me.  
“Ah,” he murmured, voice rough from sleep. “Of course. You humans,” he mumbled, twitching his hand in an attempt at a dismissive wave as he buried his face further into his arm. “So much work.”  
“Mmm,” I hummed in amicable reply, retrieving the fifth-last cookie from the jar and resuming my feast.  
Eventually he sighed and rolled himself back over, green eyes fluttering open as he glanced at me and frowned.  
“You’re using your right hand to hold the jar,” he pointed out, seeming confused.  
“Yeah, it’s better,” I agreed easily, lifting it and wiggling my bandaged fingers. “No pain. And I’ve only got a bit of ache in my stomach. What did you give me?”  
His eyes widened in befuddlement as I spoke, before he suddenly grimaced and thumped his head back against the arm of the couch.  
“Bloody Hell,” he hissed.  
“What?”  
“I didn’t give you anything,” he laughed. “We’ve both been asleep for at least a week. Oh my. You don’t happen to know what day it is, do you?”  
My eyes widened and I dropped my cookie on my lap. “What?! How could we both be asleep for a week?!”  
“Well,” he murmured, placing an amused finger alongside his cheek. “You were recovering from major surgery and I was recovering from not sleeping for the week prior. Saving you was a monumental effort, believe me,” he clicked his tongue. “Reapers still need to sleep. We can postpone it for up to two weeks flat in necessary circumstances, but we acquire a sleep debt that enacts as soon as we relax at all. I was awake for a week, and I couldn’t dare sleep for an hour or so in between until you were essentially fully healed— because otherwise, I would drop into the debt-coma. I’ve been unconscious for the same amount of time I was awake for, so yes, about seven days.”  
I blinked at him. “Jesus! What— so, you didn’t give me anything? I just healed? Why on earth did you stay up for a week?” I demanded, glancing down at my stomach.  
His eyes followed my gaze down to the bandages and he yawned, stretching out before sliding elegantly from beneath the sheet and stepping over to the centre of the room, where I had woken up. I watched him, slowly picking up my cookie and returning it to my mouth as he stretched his arms again.  
“I had to stitch up your internal organs, whilst performing regular CPR to keep you alive. That alone took an entire day, just carefully putting your insides back together... yuck,” he muttered, pulling his shirt off over his head. The dried blood made a nasty peeling sound as the shirt unstuck from his skin. His hair fought to stay trapped with the blood in a few spots, and I found humour in watching him bent over and shirtless while grumbling and tugging at his hair as the rest of it blinded him.  
He continued as he wrestled it. “...after stitching the insides, I had to stitch the outside. The records are not nice. You’re more stitches than skin there now. The bleeding was the worst part; three days in, you just started bleeding again, right after I finished. So I had to keep redressing and recleaning the wound, and that’s when the debt began to accrue. By that point, had I fallen asleep, you would have died by infection as I would have been comatose for three days.”  
“Gross,” I whispered, slowly finishing my biscuit and reaching for the next one with wide eyes. “Do you uh... want help there?”  
“No,” he growled, finally pulling his hair free of the shirt and dropping it on the blankets.  
“Man, you’re scarred everywhere,” I murmured in disbelief as he turned to face me.  
“Thanks for the heads up,” he snapped sarcastically, and I stuck my tongue out at him.  
“Someone’s blood-sugar is low,” I mocked, whipping the cookie at him. He caught it and glared at me before popping it in his mouth.  
“I am beginning to regret selecting you.”  
“No you aren’t,” I chuckled, setting the jar aside and dusting off my hands.  
The Undertaker just rolled his eyes and folded himself back onto the couch, and I leaned my head against his knees tiredly.  
“Now we’re both... exposed,” I murmured, glancing across the room at his abandoned shirt.  
He giggled behind me. “Indeed, although I may argue that you are more covered than I.”  
I shrugged. “So I win in two ways.”  
“Hm?”  
“Don’t worry about it,” I snickered, leaning over and withdrawing another cookie before holding it up over my shoulder.  
“Have another.”  
I felt it leave my fingertips and dropped my hand back into my lap and closed my eyes, head still leaned back against his leg.  
“I might argue that you’ve seen my insides,” I cringed. “So we’re actually about even.”  
“I didn’t particularly enjoy viewing your guts, to be perfectly honest,” he scoffed humourlessly. “It was more of an emergency necessity.”  
I blinked and grinned. “But you enjoy seeing me shirtless? Ah, I’m beginning to see another reason you picked me, Undertaker,” I chuckled.  
Silence.  
I burst out laughing, which admittedly made the stitches in my stomach ache dangerously.  
He sighed irritably. “What is this fantastic theory of yours?” He muttered.  
“Quite simple, really,” I pouted coyly, glancing at my nails in distraction. “You actually think I’m attractive. You picked somebody you liked the look of.”  
He coughed against the cookie he had in his mouth, and my grin widened maliciously.  
“I— that’s not why— well now you’ve placed me in an impossibly awkward position,” he growled.  
“That was the point,” I sighed, sliding myself up onto the soft sofa cushion and carefully falling back across his lap.  
His arm, as I had calculated, automatically curled around my shoulders to catch me, and suddenly I was staring up at brilliant, shiny green with a white halo. The sharp chartreuse narrowed at me and I smiled nervously.  
“You’re surprisingly warm for a dude without a heart,” I teased, pressing my cheek against his chest and curling my hands in. “I’m cold.”  
“My core produces heat because food still does something when provided. If I don’t eat, I go cold. When I eat, I get warm. I like these cookies,” he elaborated, placing the remainder of his biscuit between his teeth without breaking his glare. “Thus, I’m usually warm.”  
I laughed uneasily, trying not to blush from his analyzing gaze before finally breaking and planting my hand over his eyes. His muscles collectively tensed up.  
“Stop looking at me like that!”  
Gritting his teeth, the mortician let out a slow breath and brushed my hand away, tightening his arm around my shoulders and lifting me closer to him.  
“You should consider yourself lucky,” he giggled, “that you are already badly wounded.”  
“And that you think I’m hot, right?” I smirked, tapping his nose. One of his eyebrows twitched in confusion.  
“Was it— was it not you who was saying that about me?”  
I sighed sharply. “I meant attractive, dammit! Way to take the bite out of my mockery.”  
With that, I rocked forwards and slid out of his grip. Suddenly free of his strangely immuring gaze, I awkwardly slid down the side of the couch again, reaching for the cookie jar.  
The mortician reanimated his long limbs and moved to stand in front of me, hand outstretched. I paused and glanced up at him, forcing myself to look at his eyes and not his strangely visible torso.  
“What?”  
“Let’s vacate the premises and go get real food somewhere. We both need a proper meal after a week’s nap,” he offered, giggling and wiggling his fingers.  
Sighing, I pushed the jar aside and planted my palm in his. Cold and pallid fingers wrapped tightly around my wrist as he pulled me up to my feet before falling to my waist, delicately resting on the edge of my hip as his eyes swept up and down my body. “How does it feel?” He murmured quietly, brow creased in concern.  
I glanced down at his hands on my hips somewhat nervously. “Uh, it—it feels alright. It’s a bit stiff, and it doesn’t like it when I move fast, but I can walk,” I stammered.  
“I’m glad of it,” he hummed, hands dropping away as he stepped to the door. “Now come. Both of us will need clothing before we wander.”  
“Isn’t it practically nighttime? Will anything be open?” I asked, glancing at the window with concern.  
“Public houses and gin palaces are open until early morning,” he elaborated, gesturing for me to follow him. “Now come before I drag you.”  
“Well, if you’re going to be a dick about it,” I huffed, stretching lazily and drifting back towards the sofa. “Challenge accep—“  
In a flash, he kicked my feet out from under me, and I shrieked as I stumbled back into his open arms.  
“The difference,” he hummed, shifting to toss me over his shoulder and hold me there. “Between you and I, is that I have the physical power that grants me the right to be a dick about it. You do not.”  
I narrowed my eyes at the floor. “Rude.”  
“I’m taking you to the Viaduct.”  
“That sounds vaguely threatening,” I muttered suspiciously, half-heartedly punching his shoulder with the side of my hand as we he made his way down the steps. “Put me down!”  
“You had your chance. And the Viaduct is a cheap gin palace. I do not keep much coin on me, so we will simply have to make do with easy liquor and food.”  
I watched a doorway pass me by before I was suddenly flipped around. I yelped and grabbed onto whatever I could find, which happened to be— well, nothing, except from his shoulder blade, pulling him off balance. I landed on the bed and he haphazardly stumbled to one knee.  
“Do you mind?” He chuckled, flipping hair back over his shoulder and shooting me a glare.  
I glanced around at the room as he sighed and drifted away.  
I was laying on a bed against a wall with a window, facing into the room; to my right, across the room, was the door, and to my left were a series of bookshelves. A desk lined the far wall, along with a wardrobe.  
The mortician was currently sorting through the closet. From within the depths he withdrew a white shirt and a second, smaller white shirt of similar making. He tossed the littler one to me, pulling the first one up over his shoulders.  
“That’s from when I was still reaping. I was even skinnier,” he chuckled.  
“Oh?” I asked, gaze snapping up. “You... no longer reap?”  
“I’m retired,” he explained, glowing eyes flickering to me for a moment as he buttoned up the shirt. “I haven’t reaped souls in at least half a century.”  
“But you have... the bodies...” I argued weakly. “And the scythe. Wait, so then you’re not Death alone, which I figured from how blasé you seem about not reaping constantly... how does a grim reaper retire?” I murmured, rubbing my shoulder habitually as I frowned in thought.  
He chuckled suspiciously. “Well... they don’t, really. But I grew tired of it. I was... well. It’s a long story,” he sighed, finishing the last button. I glanced down at the shirt in my hands. It was cold and smooth, pure cotton. I held it up and closed one eye, matching it to his torso. My focus shifted from the professional white collar to his face in the background as he raised a questioning eyebrow.  
“Well, I’ve got time,” I replied finally, dropping my arms and draping the shirt around my shoulders like a cape, pausing to glance at him.  
He sighed and turned back to the wardrobe. “I will explain on the walk to the Viaduct, then. Is that fair?”  
“Since when do you ask my opinion of the decisions you make?” I scowled.  
His hand suddenly clenched it’s grip on the door of the wardrobe and he curled forwards and sobbed, raising his arm up to his eyes.  
My eyes widened in the suddenly heavy silence. “Uh...”  
“You... I’m just so... glad... that you lived,” he gasped.  
I stared at his shaking back in confusion and shock, completely stunned into silence.  
Immediately after, he seemed to sober up. Straightening his posture, he returned to digging through the wardrobe, as though nothing had happened, but his expression of calm impassiveness was tight.  
“.... are... are you alright?” I whispered.  
His hands stilled, then dropped away.  
“Just peachy,” he smiled, turning on his heel and taking a few steps towards me. “Here. Let me help you with that.”  
I froze in place. The mortician knelt in front of me on the floor, hands reaching up around my legs to delicately grip the first button of the shirt, sliding it into place. His eyes rested firmly on each button, lips set in a relaxed smile as he did the shirt up to my throat before he stood and returned to the closet.  
Leaning forwards slowly, I felt at the top button with my fingertips, fiddling with the collar anxiously as I watched him.  
He pulled a burgundy ribbon from the closet. Wrapping his hair deftly around itself in his right hand, he twisted the ribbon around it and tied it up into a high pony tail, bangs pulled to the sides of his face elegantly.  
I whistled and he gave me a startled glance before laughing as I blushed.  
“That was almost flirtatious,” he chuckled in a dangerous tone of warning. “May want to watch yourself.”  
“No thanks, I prefer to keep myself completely unpredictable,” I retorted, lazily leaning back on the bed and tilting my head.  
He snorted and dragged out a short black jacket, which seemed to be quite form-fitting when he tugged it on as it clasped tightly around his waist.  
I tried not to blush again as his gaze swept up and down my body, looking for something. He clicked his tongue. “Hell. I did not ever consider that you may need to go outside. Hmm... shoes...” he muttered.  
“Did you burn mine or something?” I asked.  
He shook his head, ponytail whipping back and forth slightly with his action. “No, but god forbid anyone see you in them. They’re completely... well, they’re ahead of their time to a dangerous extent,” he murmured.  
I frowned. “Just give em here for a moment,” I instructed, leaning forwards and holding out my hand.  
He seemed skeptical but did as I asked, pulling open a drawer on the bottom of the wardrobe and tossing my shoes towards me. They were simple Cons, thankfully black and not any other more ostentatious colour.  
“They simply won’t pass—“  
“Shh,” I hissed sharply, narrowing my eyes at him and sticking out my tongue.  
He rolled his eyes and put his hands on his hips, watching me skeptically.  
I focused on the shoes in my hands. “Want to tell me why you look so different than normal? You’re wearing colour and everything,” I giggled.  
“Ah, um, well it’s easier if I don’t look like a mortician when I go out. People who have seen me will still indeed recognize me; but having a specific aura of death is unnecessary when attending a pub. Especially one like the Viaduct.”  
“What does that mean? One like the Viaduct?”  
“You’ll see,” he smirked, before narrowing his eyes at me. “What the hell are you doing?”  
I had ripped off the white plastic toe and trim of each shoe, leaving behind a vaguely destroyed and ragged fabric in its place. Pulling the white laces from the metal circles, I discarded them on the floor next to the plastic and shoved my feet inside what were now practically slippers.  
Straightening my legs, I grinned. “Problem solved.”  
He sighed and shrugged. “Very well, it works. Here,” he offered, draping a jacket similar to his over his pale arm and extending it towards me.  
Taking it from him, I shrugged the knitted black cotton up over my shoulders.  
“There we go. Well,” I breathed, brushing myself off and rocking forwards onto my feet. “Shall we?”


	9. Chapter 9

The earth was dry and dusty, twilight settling over London quickly as the mortician guided me down the streets, his hand firmly pressing forwards on the small of my back. I stepped quickly to keep up with his pace. My shoes were inconveniently loose, but functional in avoiding sharp rocks and whatever else may lay on the streets of Victorian London.   
We seemed to hit a main drag, where there were meandering couples and a few small crowds of street rats huddled around a newspaper stand, dressed loosely in dirty summer jackets. A few of them had cigarettes, a sight that completely caught me off guard.   
The mortician’s hand fell away and he held out his arm for me to take. I looked up at him suspiciously as I slipped my hand into his elbow. “Uh... from what I know about Victorian fashion, I’m dressed as a boy right now, yes? Quite obviously, as well. Would it not be less strange for me to act more as your apprentice, rather than a lady on your arm?” I whispered, glancing around nervously.   
He hummed for a moment, a secretive smile ghosting across his mouth.   
I glared at him. “What?”  
“I happen to be one of few openly dragging people in this time period,” he chuckled quietly. “No one dares fight me on it, and urchins don’t exactly care one way or the other. I avoid the eye of the queen and legislative authorities; people like to pretend that morticians don’t exist.”  
“Dragging?”  
“I believe your time calls it bisexual,” he murmured. “Or... what’s the other one you use? Posexual?”  
“Pansexual?” I suggested, slowly absorbing what he was saying.   
“Sure,” he waved an indifferent hand. “Regardless, I’m unsure if it is a condition I was born with, or if it simply grew on me as time passed. Gender begins to lose potency when you hit your 400th year,” he laughed humourlessly.   
I bristled at the term ‘condition’, but he didn’t seem to intend any derogation by it, and I sighed, forcing myself to relax. My exposed throat was chilled in the slightly icy breeze of the night.   
“...whatever you say,” I murmured. “I have to trust you anyway.”  
“Do you?” He inquired, tone light as he tilted his head to glance down at me. His eyes were like lanterns at dusk.   
“Do I what?”  
“Trust me.”  
I pondered the question quietly for a few moments, dodging a light post before responding. “I think that is an unfair question in light of recent circumstances. In this particular situation, yes, because I have to. But I don’t trust you to maintain your temper.”  
The silence that followed worried me. A few paces on, however, the mortician simply chuckled. “That is fair. We are nearly there,” he said.   
“Good,” I shuddered and glanced around at the rapidly dimming streets. “It’s getting dark.”  
“We still have to walk home,” he chided, and I shushed him.   
“Let’s make it to food first.”

“Newgate Gowl?” I asked, pointing at the sign ahead of us. “Gowl? What’s a gowl?” I stared up at the stone building. It was the first I had seen thus far along the streets with no front-facing windows, composed of dark brickwork and a heavy iron door.   
The mortician’s hair flipped about him dramatically as he laughed. The sudden chiming startled me, and he had to tighten his arm to keep me from bouncing away from him.   
“Gowl? Gaol,” he corrected me.   
My eyes widened. “Wait, jail?! That’s how you spell jail?”  
He paused and glanced at me before leading me across the street to a building with large windows, all of which were gleaming orange against the night that had settled. “How do you spell gaol?” He asked.  
“J-A-I-L!”  
He crinkled his nose. “I was unaware of that alteration of scripture.”  
“Why have you led me to a jail?” I demanded nervously, gripping his sleeve with my right hand, which still had bandages wrapped about the fingers.   
“If you’ll notice, I’m now leading you away from the gaol,” he chuckled. “This is the Viaduct,” he waved at the building in front of us, granting me no time to adjust before brazenly pulling open the heavy wooden door and shoving me through.   
Stumbling into the noise, I whirled around in a panic and glared up at the Undertaker. Thankfully, he was right behind me, snickering into his hand as he drew the heavy door closed behind him.   
The scent of alcohol and salt drifted through the air in gushes of warmth, calming my nerves. It was not unlike the feel of a modern restaurant. A few attendees shot odd or suspicious glances our way, and the crowd was unsavoury, but the mortician drew more eyes than I did— for which I was grateful.   
His own scalding glare quickly urged the spectators to return to their own conversations.   
A server in a layered pink dress floated over to us. I tried not to stare at her chest; although the rest of her was covered, her breasts were very clearly displayed, pushed up by her bodice to bounce dangerously as she moved. Her brown hair was pulled back into some sort of curly bun above her politely disinterested smile.   
“Welcome to the Viaduct,” she offered, curtsying very slightly.   
The Undertaker inclined his head, and wordlessly beyond that, the woman led us through the small crowd of tables to a booth along the far wall. The cushions were a dark and shady green, and instead of a window, a large painting hung next to us. Renaissance. As we drew nearer, I noticed the maroon decorative curtains pulled to either side of each of the booths.   
“Stylish,” I murmured shyly, sliding into the booth across from the mortician and staring around myself in amazement. I was experiencing history firsthand.   
The mortician shrugged and our hostess smiled. “We aim to please ‘ere at the Viaduct. Do you have an idea of what type of whet you want?”   
Her accent was closer to cockney than the Undertaker’s own. I could detect the strain on her vowels as she attempted to sound more refined, likely to appeal to the higher demographic of her job. I glanced at the mortician.   
“Whatever you have on tap for me. What do you drink?” He asked, frighteningly luminescent gaze locking on me.   
I shrugged helplessly.   
“Make that two,” he smiled kindly at the waitress. “Along with a hash of some kind.”  
“Ten,” she chirped, and held out her hand.   
The Undertaker sat back with a heavy sigh and patted his pockets, locating the one he had apparently stashed money in. Pulling out a mysterious sum of coins, he handed them to her.   
Curtsying again, she tucked the coins away into her dress and drifted off.   
“This is bizarre,” I hissed, sitting stiffly and digging my nails into the wood of the table.   
The mortician chuckled and leaned forwards. Laying his hand overtop mine before I could pull away, he grinned at me. His smile emphasized the dark circles beneath his eyes.   
“Relax.”  
Staring at him uneasily for a moment, I pressed my eyes shut and forced myself to draw a shaky breath.  
After a moment of silent concentration, listening to the dim clamour of the pub, I snapped back awake.   
“You never explained what you meant about retiring,” I accused, a wicked smile rising to my lips. “Come on, crack it open. What’s it all about?”  
His glowing eyes widened for a moment. Then, he sighed and leaned back, tapping the tabletop in a few short successions before switching to fiddle with a strand of his hair.   
“Reapers... well, first of all, there’s more than one. There are many grim reapers. All go through the process of the academy, and in fact are sorted. There are several divisions of reapers. The ones you humans encounter at death, like me, are retrieval dispatch. Collections reapers. I... gained a certain reputation,” he murmured quietly, grimacing and staring uneasily at his fingertips playing with his hair.   
I chuckled. “For what? Being pretty?”  
His golden green gaze flickered up to meet mine, pallid features cold and gaunt in the flickering light from the gas lamp on our table. “For being... merciless,” he murmured, voice low and smooth as he masked his words in the noise of our surroundings.   
I stilled and felt the blood drain from my face a little. “I can’t say I’m exactly surprised,” I murmured in return, folding my hands on the table and leaning forwards, bowing to a level so that I looked up at him as though a heavy weight had been forced upon my shoulders.   
“Mm,” he hummed. “Yes. Well. I was efficient. My skills were widely appreciated... I never did quite decide whether I should be insulted or complimented that I was meant for death,” he whispered. “But the other reapers began to ...idolize me.”  
“A celebrity among gods,” I raised my eyebrows, placing my chin on my hands. “Now I feel really special.”  
“There are statues of me in the reaper realm.”  
“Jesus Christ!” I hissed under my breath, staring at him in a new light of appreciation.   
“Well, I got tired of it after enough time, and I... deserted.”  
I blinked a few times. “Alright... honestly, I can understand that,” I allowed, frowning in contemplation. “So...were you born as a death god, then?”  
His shoulders tensed.   
“Not exactly.”  
I waited, staring up at him silently while he felt out his words. “I... reapers... reapers are suicidal souls. We’re forced to reap others after we cause our own death to see how others cling so desperately to what we gave so freely,” he murmured finally, sighing as though he was sleepy and laying his head on his arm. I focused on the burgundy ribbon restraining his elegant silver hair.   
“You killed yourself,” I whispered, in macabre awe. “You did what I... couldn’t.”  
He glanced up at me sharply and I jerked back, bouncing off of the booth cushion behind me. I pressed my palms against the edge of the table in a panic to get away from him. Squirming uneasily, I readied my muscles to jump and run if he attacked.   
“What did you say?” He murmured.   
I maintained eye contact with him, resolve steadily crumbling inside as his glare bored into me.   
Opening my mouth to reply, I nearly leapt out of my skin when a woman slid herself into the booth right next to me, the strong scent of gin following in her wake.   
“‘Ello gentlemen,” she purred, a red ringlet of hair falling down over her bare shoulder as she leaned her chin on her hand. “Mind if I in’nerupt?”  
The mortician shrouded his glare, quickly dropping his eyelashes to feign mild interest as his eyes swept up and down her figure.   
I followed suit.   
The lady was dressed more scantily than the waitress had been, torn cotton stockings attempting to hide her legs below her short white skirt, which in turn was barely held in place by a tight and firm powder-pink corset— beneath which was nothing. I glanced away, turning slightly red as she obviously pressed her arms together in an effort to boost her already overflowing chest.   
“Please do,” the mortician purred, sounding fully seduced. My eyes darted across his face, trying to decipher if he was truly interested. I would be surprised.  
“What’re you fi~ne boys lookin for tonight?” Her thin lips pulled back in a tipsy and alluring smile. To the woman’s credit, her figure was enviable, her charm undeniable in her rosy cheeks, copper red hair and crystal blue eyes.   
“Your name,” I spoke up, smoothing my own hair back nervously and leaning into the corner between the table and booth to face her, pulling one leg up to rest it casually.   
She turned her attentions to me with a befuddled look. The mortician ran his fingers across his mouth, subconsciously wiping away the appreciative smile he flashed me.   
“Layla, luv,” she winked, falling back into character before coyly teasing her fingertip against her lower lip and glancing back and forth between the Undertaker and I. “And wot might I call you two?”  
I stared at the mortician, waiting in patient and contempt silence. What would he say? Our harlot followed my gaze.   
Green eyes quickly flickering back and forth between us, he sighed and chuckled under his breath. He shifted one leg up over the other.  
“I’m James,” he smiled politely, holding a pale hand flat against his chest. “My companion here is Lee.”  
I grit my teeth, disappointed but not surprised that he had used aliases rather than our true names. At least, I assumed he wasn’t really a James, based on the fact that he got my name wrong.   
Wait, did he think my name was Lee? I mean, it was close, but he knew my name, didn’t he? Lord, what if he had it wrong this whole time—  
I coughed into my arm to mask my snort of laughter.   
The woman, Layla, sighed happily and leaned back against the booth.   
“Lovely names,” she purred. “Pleasure to meet you.”  
“The pleasure is ours,” the Undertaker murmured in response, shifting to appear even more relaxed, shoulders slouched forwards at an angle as he leaned back against the cushioned seat.   
“It will be, James,” she shot another wink at the mortician. “If ya might like it to be.”  
He laughed politely and glanced across the pub. I fidgeted uncomfortably. What the hell was happening?  
The waitress returned and brought our drinks, and I passed mine off to our female companion— she didn’t seem to need any more, but I was suddenly not in a drinking mood. Layla, obeying her nature, accepted it without complaint and clinked glasses with the mortician before they both took a sip.   
“For a certain fee, I imagine?” He smoothly continued where the two had left off while I crammed myself further back in the corner to avoid the conversation.   
“You’re already halfway there, tuney,” she giggled, gesturing at the pint of gin.   
“My shy friend is certainly in need of some company,” he offered, and I felt myself pale.   
Panic, panic panic panic.   
What the hell was he doing?!  
I sent a positively scathing glare at the mortician, making a gesture with my hand before I glanced uneasily at Layla, who obviously mistook my discomfort for simple insecurity around a woman, and she chimed a little laugh. “Of course, of course. Although, frien’? I must ask, I thought you may have been brothers.”  
My eyebrows jerked up beyond my control, as did the mortician’s.   
“Sorry, what?” He demanded, staring intently at me but talking to her.   
“Well sure. I mean, you don’t look exactly alike, but there’s definitely similarities. You’re kind of an odd one though, James, pardon my sayin so, but I’ve never seen hair so white on someone so young,” she narrowed her eyes quizzically.   
“I went through an extremely traumatic event at age seven,” he replied easily, hooding his eyes and composing himself once again. “My hair went white and never went back.”  
“I’m sorry,” she offered.   
Waving a dismissive hand, he fished in his pockets for another coin and handed it to her, sliding it across the table slowly.   
“And who’s favour shall I be providing?” She murmured in a low voice, pulling the coin towards herself and dropping it into her shoe.   
“Lee, of course.”  
She nodded happily and took me by my wrist before I could react. “Follow me, tuney.”  
Mouth dropping open in shock, I was dragged through the pub before I could protest. I did, through my stumbling, manage to shoot the mortician another icy glare over my shoulder.  
Layla shoved her way through the pub and ushered me through a back door. Too awkward to tell her off, I stepped through and was met with the bitter chill of the cooling night air, confronted by a dark and narrow alley between the pub and the neighbouring building. I was still panicking inside; while I was not against sex with a woman any more than a man, there was still the issue that I was absolutely petrified of any intimacy at all— and god knows what STDs I might contract, were condoms even a thing right now?   
Then the woman, slightly shorter than me while standing, leaned against me and pressed me flat up against a wall.   
“Layla,” I stammered, placing my hands on her shoulders hesitantly.   
She made short work of the top buttons on my shirt. Pensively, I watched her expression change as she noticed all of my bandages.   
“Layla,” I pleaded again. “Listen to me. My brother— he doesn’t understand. But, but you understand me, right Layla?”  
Her blue eyes widened in confusion. Taking a few steps away from me, she raised her hands and shook her head slowly.   
I fell to my knees on the cold cobblestones of the alley and clasped my hands together. I needed a way to get out of this. Something she would accept. “Oh Layla!” I wailed. “Layla, I— he did this to me, oh Layla, will you keep my secret?”  
“Y-your secret?” She whimpered, holding a shocked hand to her mouth and staring at the cotton strips.   
“Layla,” I forced tears to come to my eyes. “Layla— I’m g— I mean—“ Shit! They didn’t use the word gay yet! What the hell did they call it? “—I’m—impure, Layla, I’m dragging! Layla, you understand, don’t you? You’re lovely, Layla. You are,” I whispered, slowly reaching forwards and taking her hand between both of mine. “You’re lovely. Delicate flower. It’s me who’s wrong. My brother hates me for it, Layla, he wants me to have a woman so as to fix me from wanting other men, Layla. You have your money— please, girl, rough me up a little so as to look like we did something, and then let’s just have a chat, please?” I begged. “Please, Layla?”  
My knee began to ache from a rock digging into my bone, and I slowly straightened up, pulling her towards me with an imploring gaze. Laying my hands gently on either side of her face, I leaned my forehead against hers. “You understand me, don’t you, Layla?”  
Slowly, she nodded her head and ran her tongue over her teeth in thought.   
“So, he hurt you?”  
“He’s trying to help me get well, Layla, I’m not right in the head. But I won’t be able to perform for you. I’m sorry, I truly wish I wasn’t so perverted, you’re lovely,” I murmured, guts burning at having to fake such a disgusting moral struggle to blend into the time. This type of intolerance was so alien, it actually physically hurt my mind to have to say the words.  
“Of course,” she sighed. “I understand. I’m not against people like you, y’know, sexual deviants and whatnot...”  
Releasing a pensive breath, I chuckled. “You’re a saint, Layla, you know that? Now rough me up a little so we can go back in as though we had a good time,” I repeated.   
Without further complaint she put her lips against mine and kissed me forcefully, bunching her hands in my collar and biting me— unnecessarily hard, I found, but I enjoyed it— to make my mouth bloom into a dark blush. Her fingers repeatedly scrunched up the collar of my white shirt, bending it and creasing it further and further before she ran her hands through my hair to tousle it.  
About ten minutes later, I told her to go find somewhere warm to sleep and she told me that she did in fact have a home to return to. Bidding her goodnight, I stumbled back into the noise and light of the pub and did my best to appear glassy-eyed and disheveled.   
Weaving my way through the tables, I tumbled heavily into the booth across from the mortician. His detached green eyes switched from his nails to analyze my appearance as I reclaimed my spot.   
I whistled lowly. “My man, you should have taken her.”  
He masked his surprise well. I saw through it, of course, taking note of how his eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, and I relished every flicker of confusion.   
“Oh? I must say, I expected a different reaction from you,” he admitted, shaking his head once and leaning forwards. “But I suppose, in that case, I’m... glad I could provide.”  
I snickered and buttoned up the lowest open button on my shirt. I was pretty sure Layla had left some dark kiss marks down my neck. That exchange could have gone far worse had she been less accepting of my “situation”, and I was glad that she had in fact been rather kind.   
“Also,” I challenged suddenly, leaning forwards and folding my arms on the table as I levelled an irritated glare at him. “Lee?”  
He threw his head back and laughed. “Pretty good, right? Giving your real name to those people is always a gamble.”  
“You just didn’t want to use my name,” I accused, and we halted our argument as the waitress dropped a plate of dice potatoes and ham in front of me.   
Plucking up the fork from the table, I tucked in whilst still maintaining my suspicious gaze at the mortician. His glittery eyes returned it evenly, and he placed his chin in his palm delicately as he watched me eat.  
“Mmm,” he hummed lightly in response. “And what do you plan on doing about that? There’s no way you can force me to.”  
“Just say it,” I grinned. “It’s not that hard. You were really close with Lee, if that helps.”  
“I know how to say—“ he snapped, catching himself and tossing his ponytail back over his shoulder haughtily. “Well. Your name,” he finished. “But since it bothers you that I don’t say it, I refuse to.”  
“Oh it doesn’t bother me,” I shrugged nonchalantly, lifting another bite of food to my mouth. “I just don’t think you can. Maybe you’ve never heard it before.”  
“I’m going to start calling you Rat,” he hissed angrily.   
“You were closer with Lee,” I rolled my eyes. “Try Eel if you’re going for animals.”  
Leaning back, he took a long breath in through his nose and pressed his lips in a firm line. “You are full of surprises.”  
“And potatoes,” I concluded, glancing down at my empty plate. “Shall we vanish?”

We walked in silence for the first few blocks, my hands firmly in the pockets of my open coat.   
“Are you not cold?” He murmured, a hint of distaste barely lacing his words.   
I smirked and kept my gaze fixed ahead of me. “What, don’t you like looking at the results of what you paid for?”   
“She was certainly... unrestrained,” he observed uneasily.   
“Oh, I asked her to be extra rough,” I nodded emphatically and chuckled. “She did well to oblige. She pulled my hair and bit me and—“  
“Spare me the details,” he growled, and I glanced at him with a secretly triumphant grin. His hands were as deeply jammed in his pockets as mine, and he was scowling miserably against the night.   
“Are you jealous?” I teased, enjoying how easily riled he seemed to be getting. “It was your idea. What were you hoping for? Did you expect me to not take advantage of an opportunity with a woman like her? Holy hell, she was a hot hooker, man,” I wolf-whistled again, suppressing an embarrassed snicker. I sounded ridiculous. “And I mean, god, she knows how to use her hands—“  
I shrieked as I was suddenly shoved and pinned up against the stone wall, the mortician’s freezing hands around my throat. I kicked at him in reflex but stilled shortly thereafter. I grinned up at him.   
“Ooh, now who’s feeling rough? You and Layla would have gotten along so well, you have no idea—“  
“I said spare me the details!” He growled, baring his teeth and flashing me a scathing look before stepping away and briskly walking on.   
I hurried to catch up with him, pushing my messy hair back from my face. “Undertaker—or should I call you James? Anyway, I didn’t have sex with that woman,” I called, laughing as I latched onto his arm.  
He halted suddenly, and I stumbled and swung around to face him.   
“What?” He demanded harshly, hands reimbedded within his coat.   
“I— I told her I was gay,” I laughed breathlessly, triumphantly in his face. “I told her I was gay! Ahahaha! I asked her to make me look like we fucked, you should have seen your face— awe, so you do care about me, getting all jealous like that—“  
“So you allowed yourself to be abused by a whore in order to trick me? To what end?”  
“You tricked me into going with her in the first place,” I dug my elbow into his side. “A simple act of revenge. I knew that me enjoying myself wasn’t the reaction you were looking for.”   
“You think me so malicious,” he chuckled, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. I glared at his hand suspiciously, and sure enough, his chilled fingers tapped the side of my neck before pushing against it rather uncomfortably, on a particularly irritated section of flesh.   
“And yet,” he continued, voice soft but sonorous, “I’ve left less marks on you than our friend Layla did.”  
“And isn’t that just a shame,” I clicked my tongue, shying away from his talons and only cornering myself against him further. “Stop poking my neck!”  
“Would you prefer if I bite it?” He chuckled dangerously, glancing down at me with a contempt and threatening grin.   
I swallowed in fear. Then, batting his hand away playfully, I forced a smile onto my face.   
“Undertaker,” I giggled, narrowing my eyes at him. “Not now. We’re in public.”  
“Mm,” he murmured, gaze still fixed on me as he allowed his hand to drop and settle on my waist instead. “Later, then.”


	10. Chapter 10

“I’m—still—damaged!” I shrieked, sprinting away from him as soon as we stepped back through the door. “So don’t even try—“  
My plan backfired as I stumbled over a coffin almost immediately in the dark, collapsing against the hard concrete floor with a yelp. Cursing myself, I paused and listened for him, surprised that he hadn’t given chase. There was a tense moment of silence before I heard him chuckle as the door swung shut.   
“Well, isn’t this just entertaining?”  
“Stay away from me, you psychopath,” I snarled, huddling with my back against the coffin behind me and glaring off into the darkness.   
“You are unfamiliar with the layout of this room, hmm?” He giggled, and I forced myself to stay still even as his footsteps drifted closer. Jurassic Park scenes flickered through my mind. Could reapers see in the dark?  
Slowly, silently, I slid along the floor to my right. The mortician’s clothes on my body were perfectly soundless on the concrete.   
I heard him shift off to my left in the darkness.   
“Tch, it’s a shame your generation did not adapt to see in the dark somehow. I can tell that you are giving me the silent treatment,” he sighed. “So I’ll make you a deal, for my own entertainment. If you can locate and light the lamp before I find you, I’ll fulfill one request for you, with obvious exceptions like letting you go or killing you. If I catch you first...”  
He left the phrase hanging, and I could feel my veins turning icy with building adrenaline.   
“That’s all,” he concluded, and at the sound of his heel scraping across the floor, I snapped into action.  
Rolling to my right, I ignored the pain in my stomach and slid both my shoes off my feet. I tossed one across the room. It landed in the corner as far from me as possible, a loud cracking sound echoing through the shop as the sole struck the wall. I heard him spin and launched my second shoe at where I had estimated he would be. Satisfyingly, I heard it smack him in what sounded like the head, and he yelped. I shuffled further into the shop, crouching and ninja-crawling around a coffin as I heard him angrily stalk towards where I had been moments prior. I retrieved my shoe and headed to the corner to grab my other one. The lamp was most likely on his desk, and it was a gaslight— I believed I just had to twist the handle. If the fucker had put fuel in it, anyway.   
I knew where his desk was, but I knew he would be looking for me along the walls, so I had to weave through coffins silently somehow.   
He laughed when he couldn’t find me. “Clever child. How far will you get?”  
“Far enough,” I snarled, unable to resist the mockery, and I whipped my shoe at him again as he spun.   
“Quit that!” He growled as it hit him again.   
“Make me!”  
I sat still, fighting my urge to run as I stifled my breathing with my sleeve. The Undertaker seemed to be paused in the middle of the room, but after a looong stretch of silence, I took a guess and threw my next shoe straight forward. It stopped way sooner than I had anticipated— he was less than five feet in front of me.   
“Holy shit!” I yelped, tucking and rolling before sprinting straight across the shop. He snarled and lunged for where I was in the darkness. Fingertips brushing my shoulder terrifyingly, he spun and gave chase immediately. My shins hit a coffin and I tumbled over it painfully, yelping in pain as he launched over it in the darkness with me. Pure desperate fear kicked in and I shoved his hands and legs away, sliding around on the floor until I somehow managed to escape his haphazard grip. The blackness seemed to be benefitting me more than either of us had accounted for.   
Scrabbling to my feet, I sprinted in the vague direction of the desk, trying to weave around coffins and only bumping into a few. His footsteps were loud and predatory behind me, and he gained ground quickly. Suddenly I hit the desk, pain tremoring through my abdomen as I nearly smacked the injury right on the edge. I fumbled for the lantern. In the chaos, my fingers somehow felt the metal, and as his hand curled into the back of my collar and yanked me off the desk, the lamp was dragged with me. I kicked and shrieked, trying to locate the switch desperately. I could feel the liquid gas swirling in the containment, which was reassuring. Victory was within my means!  
In my complete panic in the dark, I managed to connect a kick high up on his shoulder, dislodging his grip for just long enough for me to dart away. I finally felt the switch of the lamp and flicked it on—  
The room stayed dark. The lamp ignition was broken.  
Mother.   
Fucker.   
I ran, still weaving and jumping around coffins in the dark. Sprinting along the wall, I put my hand out and counted the doors as I passed them. Reaching the one of the basement, I yanked it open without a second thought and plummeted down the stairs into the darkness. The mortician was close behind. To my amazement, a single red ember glowed in the corner, where the fire had once been roaring; a week of smouldering had left only one, sustained by the concrete that was eternally heated beneath it.   
I dove for it, hand reaching blindly through the ashes and ignoring the stinging pain as I grasped the coal.   
I dropped it into the gas lamp, and in an instant, the flame was alight, a fiery jet quickly roaring up to a dangerous height. In the flash of the light, I briefly glanced, victoriously beaming and shaking with adrenaline, to the Undertaker— just in time to see one of the heavy chains whipping through the air towards me, a fan of white hair behind it. Even in the dark, his precise aim was skilled enough to just nick the lamp and slash it right out of my hand, dousing the fire as the entire apparatus shattered.   
I screeched and fell back in surprise as the room was plunged into darkness once again. In my panic, I vaguely registered a laugh in the blackness. Desperately, I tried to get to my feet, but just as I was about to take off running again, icy fingers wrapped firmly about my wrist and pulled me back. I aimed a punch and shrieked incoherently at him, mind clouding with adrenaline.   
“Relax!” He shouted desperately, wrapping one arm tightly around my back as he tried to dodge my attacks in the dark. “Relax! You won, you won! You won, you little prat,” he sighed. “And now I need to find another lamp.”


	11. Chapter 11

The mortician left me to go and prepare a bucket of warm water, while I slowly dragged myself up the steps to the upper room. He had already lit the hall and the stairway with more functional lanterns. I grabbed the last one off the hook as I pushed open the door, facing the darkness of the familiar space with the flickering candlelight.  
I abandoned the lamp in the middle of the room and sat next to it, realizing as I heard his footsteps on the stairs below that I looked rather creepy; sitting in the dark in the Halloween-orange light alone. Whatever. I waited. The hardwood floors were soothing and warm.  
“Way to look sane,” he chuckled, pushing the door open with the small basin of water in the crook of his arm.  
I lifted an eyebrow. “This coming from the man with wild white hair, facial scars, and necklace strapped to his waist?”  
“They’re mourning lockets!” He snapped defensively. “And I’m not even wearing them!”  
I waved dismissively and leaned back on the floor as he folded his legs and sat in front of me, setting the bucket of water between us. Holding out a pale hand, his green eyes glowing fiercely in the light of the lantern, he gestured for me to lean forwards.  
I raised my eyebrow again. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” I demanded with a lazy grin.  
He sighed. “Ah yes. You are referring to your victory, hmm?”  
I nodded happily.  
Placing his chin in his hand with a dramatic and defeated look, he blew hair out of his eyes. “Whatever can I do for you?” He drawled.  
“Servitude really suits you,” I winked. “You should try it more.”  
His mouth opened and closed in sudden stunned anger, and his cheeks actually darkened, if it wasn’t a trick of the light. Quickly masking his embarrassment, he grinned wolfishly. “I think that you fit that position much more adeptly than I; as such, I will leave the submissiveness to the master.”  
“Oo, see, there you go again, calling me ‘master’—“  
“Which one of us held the whip again?” He inquired, feigning concentration and tapping his temple. “I can’t quite seem to recall.”  
I stuck my tongue out at him. “Some would argue that being able to take the bite of it requires more strength.”  
He just gave me a dumb look and pointed at his scar. “Tell me more about that.”  
Crossing my arms, I huffed. “Anyway. My request.”  
He rolled his eyes and clasped his hands. “Do tell.”  
“Call me by my name,” I said quickly, already beginning to grow nervous at how rapidly his expression changed. “Not once, and not a name you pick; my name, my real name, use it like a regular person,” I instructed, levelling a challenging glare at him.  
He clasped his hands and narrowed his eyes at me suspiciously. “Are you certain that is what you want?” He murmured slowly.  
Leaning back slightly, I nodded.  
“Might I ask why?”  
“Ask away,” I replied after a moment. “But I won’t tell you.”  
“Very well,” he murmured, pressing his lips together and reaching forwards to take my bandages arm lightly in his fingertips.  
I winced as the water met my skin, but it was only pleasantly warm. After a few seconds of silence, with his nails beginning to gently pry at the dirtied and rough edges of the bandages, I looked back up at him. “Well?”  
He paused and glanced at me. “It hardly seems ‘normal’ to suddenly call someone by name in the middle of a conversation, hmm? I’ll use it when I need to get your attention. I will not forget,” he hummed in reassurance, focusing again on the bandages.  
“You’re sure you know it?” I inquired apprehensively.  
“Shush, of course I know it,” he snapped tiredly, and I flinched.  
The bandage resin came away easily with the heat and the water, and before long, he had carefully unwound the long sections of cotton from my arm. My hand was the first to be visible, and I flexed my fingers, feeling oddly naked without the wrappings. Then I looked at my palm. A new scar ran across it horizontally, accompanied by two more lines that crossed it at odd angles. Like a star.  
“Eesh,” I murmured.  
“It required stitches,” the mortician hummed thoughtfully.  
“I can see that.”  
He unbuttoned my shirt before I had a chance to, and I felt strangely useless just watching him undress my torso in order to peel bandages off my shoulder.  
At the end of it all, I had one white line that ran all the way up my arm and fanned out into tendrils across my chest before cutting off abruptly. I felt along the scar slowly with my fingertips. Although I could see it, my skin felt smooth and ridgeless, and I glanced at the mortician quizzically.  
He shrugged. “It just changed some colour in your skin, I suppose.”  
“Alright,” I murmured, rubbing my hand up and down my arm. My flesh felt tacky, like it had been left under a bandaid too long.  
Then the mortician shifted towards me, and I jerked back. I leaned too far; he reacted to my sudden motion by attacking, and we tumbled backwards. He was on me before I could even shriek.  
As his hands dug into my shoulders, pinning me to the floor, I gripped his arms desperately in an attempt to shove him off me. I couldn’t even bend his elbow, and he slid one long black-clad leg up over mine to sit just above my knees as I opened my mouth to hurl obscenities.  
“Will you bloody relax?” He snapped. “I just want to check your stomach!”  
“You don’t exactly have the best track record,” I hissed in return, but I resentfully released my hold on him and laid back against the floor, suddenly exhausted.  
Still straddling my legs, he shot me one more icy green glare before his pale fingertips gently ran over my midsection. Despite still being held back with a ribbon, his silver hair trailed over my chest, and I had to fight the urge to curl up in reaction to the itch. He hummed lowly to himself.  
Seeming satisfied, he suddenly slid off of me and stretched his arms.  
“It seems adequate,” he yawned, white teeth flashing in the flickering lamplight.  
With the dark presence gone, I stared blankly at the half-lit ceiling, not really wanting to move yet. I was happy to just lie still until I died, frankly.  
The air against my right arm was cold and I tucked it to my chest subconsciously. Relinquishing the thoughts of the day, I closed my eyes.  
Distantly, I registered that the mortician left, and I didn’t care; he returned shortly thereafter, the door to the attic creaking to a soft close behind him.  
I only opened my eyes when the slats of the floor shifted next to me, and I was met with his now familiar gaze. Despite the clarity, I flinched when a damp cloth was run gently over my cheek.  
“Relax,” he sighed again, rolling his eyes as he swiped the cloth across my shoulder, scrubbing something off. “You got yourself covered in soot when you slid through the fire. You act as though I may strangle you with the cloth at any moment.”  
Thumping my head back on the floor, I exhaled through my nose. “It’s pretty close to that, yeah.”  
“Turn over.”  
“Sorry, I’m not sure who you’re addressing.”  
He tucked his hands under my shoulder and forcefully flipped me onto my stomach, and I chuckled and huffed indignantly. “Well that was rude.”  
The cloth drifted across my shoulders and rubbed at the back of my neck. With a sigh, I leaned my head against my arms and closed my eyes.  
The mortician abandoned me once again, and I secretly prayed that he would just leave me alone with my thoughts for the entire night. Alas, the reaper returned, and, upon seeing me still lying uselessly on the floor, sighed and stepped my way. The floors groaned beneath him.  
I yelped when his frigid fingers curled into the waistband of my pants and lifted me off the floor, dragging me to the couch before tossing me against it. Landing on my knees, I hit it awkwardly, face-first. I turned to glare at him. “You could have just asked me to move,” I snarled.  
He giggled and reached up to tug the burgundy ribbon from his hair, simultaneously pinching open the first button on his shirt as he folded himself up on the couch next to me. “That would not have been as fun,” he purred, and I eyed him warily.  
“Yes, you seem to have a very distinctly unique definition of ‘fun’,” I snapped.  
“You sound...unimpressed,” he chuckled, running his fingers across his mouth and watching me with hooded eyes from across the couch. I curled up into a ball, drawing my knees up, and stuck my tongue out at him. A favourite move of mine.  
“You act as though you don’t enjoy it,” he chuckled darkly again.  
“Fuck off,” I warned. “There’s a difference between an acceptable masochistic-sadistic relation and straight-up rape.”  
“I understand,” he murmured, voice suddenly softened as his eyes flickered up and down my body. “I am learning to understand you, and where you draw the line. I believe I can toe said line with ease.”  
“And what happens when you step too far?” I challenged, crossing my arms. “You’re awfully self-confident in a situation where the consequences of your actions are not yours to suffer.”  
One pale eyebrow arched in surprise, and he lazily rested his arm on his knee, putting his cheek against his other hand and analyzing me.  
“While you are correct about that, I have faith in my alienist abilities.”  
I frowned. “Alienist?”  
He blinked once, long eyelashes fluttering in his befuddlement. “A person trained in analyzing the mind of those afflicted with a mental illness. I’ve forgotten your term for it.”  
“Psychologist,” I offered. “Shrink, if you prefer. And regardless, do I have any say in the matter?”  
He shrugged. “I suppose not. If you cooperate, then that is that. Should you fight, it becomes a new kind of fun,” he grinned maliciously, the dim light from the lantern across the room casting half of his features into unnerving shadow.  
I shivered and rolled my eyes. “You’re insane.”  
His fingers wrapped around my ankle and dragged me down towards him across the couch.  
“Holy—“  
“Trinity,” he finished, voice low and amused. “Watch your language.”  
In moments, he had me around the throat, pulling me close to him while he remained casual, calm in his control. I braced myself against his chest. “Lest,” he continued, eyes glancing down to my mouth as I struggled for air. “I wash out your mouth. I have a convenient bucket of water, just sitting all lonesome over there...”  
With a grin, he gently loosened his grip, and I sucked in a desperate breath.  
“Look at all those marks,” he murmured, not without distaste clear in his tone as he forced my head to tilt back to expose my throat.  
“Love bites,” I rasped, grinning at the memory of the mortician’s burning jealousy and how he failed to hide it.  
“So do I,” he hissed under his breath.  
The grip on my neck was released. “Come here.”  
Coughing once and rubbing my throat, I blinked up at him unsurely.  
Still sprawled comfortably with one leg bent, he smirked and watched me for a few moments. Then he twitched his fingers towards himself and darkened his glare, hair falling to cover one eye in the shadow. “I would advise against making me wait.”  
I grit my teeth and hesitantly shifted forwards to cover the last bit of free space between us, glancing at him unsurely before sliding my right leg up over his hips to straddle him lightly. I could feel my cheeks turning red just from the implications of the warning.  
Curses.  
The mortician’s expression was guarded but confident, eyes hooded and smile slightly mocking as he observed my movements. Due to our difference in height, we now sat facing each other directly, my eyes level with his brilliant chartreuse for once.  
“Now,” he murmured, eyes and tone suddenly hardening as his free hand reached up to my throat again. “Count the marks aloud.”  
I swallowed nervously and tilted my head away from his talons, which scratched lightly at my throat. Then his index dug into a spot on my neck, and I stifled a yelp as he irritated the bruise. He watched me expectantly.  
“Uh... one,” I whispered hesitantly.  
“Good,” he murmured apathetically.  
I gasped when his nail dug into a spot against my trachea. “Two...”  
Writhing uncomfortably as he dragged his talon down the side of my throat, leaving a stinging line in its wake, I pressed my eyes shut and cried out when he cut into the next mark. “Th-Three!”  
The mortician giggled and ran the hand that was previously on my hip through my hair a few times before he pulled me closer to him, cinching his grip and holding me so that his mouth was only a couple inches from mine.  
Then his thumb pressed against a welt on the other side of my throat, and I yelped again. “..ah—f-four...fuck—five...”  
“Five marks,” he growled. “Five. She used you with her whore mouth five times. What do you think of that?”  
“Ah!— I think it’s— I think it’s—“  
What did he want from me?  
“—I think it’s... not as good as what...you could do,” I coughed weakly, watching him warily as I twisted the opportunity into a psychological weapon.  
His green eyes glittered dangerously. With a wry smile, he chuckled. “Flattery. A unique, but not uncommon tactic.”  
As suddenly as he had grabbed me, he relinquished his hold and I was free to breathe. Immediately, I gasped and pulled back, sitting upright and trying to ignore the subtle shifting of his hips beneath me.  
“Now, precious, take off my shirt,” he grinned, and my eyes widened in shock. Fucking... precious??? What?  
The mortician’s icy fingers locked around my right wrist, his arm looping above my head as he pulled it behind my back sharply.  
I shrieked and twisted awkwardly as pain flashed through my shoulder, bending backwards over my own arm as the Undertaker laughed at me.  
“Hesitation is unwelcome.”  
“Got it, got it!” I whimpered, and he released me.  
With shaking hands I managed to undo the buttons down the front of his white shirt, pushing it down off his shoulders and trying not to stare. The white cotton was then abandoned on the arm of the couch.  
He sighed and leaned his head back, and then threw me to the floor.  
I hit the hardwood on my left shoulder and rolled, staring up at him with an undoubtedly betrayed expression as he chuckled and stood from the couch with a stretch. “That’s not exactly the type of thing you enjoy now, is it?”  
I rubbed my throat nervously and slowly shifted away from him on the floor. “S-sorry?”  
“Simple tasks of obedience. You prefer the physical pain,” he elaborated, stepping towards me. I held up my hands defensively as he leaned down. “Getting tossed around a little—“ he grabbed my wrists and dragged me to the wall before slamming me against it, gripping my throat and jaw with both hands to immure me. I yelped as my back was pressed into the cold corner of the room, the mortician gripping my wrists agonizingly tightly as I flailed against him.  
“Getting bit...”  
His teeth sank into the side of my throat, and I shrieked again, the shooting pain from the tender flesh there nearly overwhelming me.  
“Or getting hit,” he added, drawing back after a moment and snapping his left hand across my cheek unexpectedly. My head whipped to the side, and tears began to run from the corners of my eyes as the brutal fire blossomed across the right half of my face.  
“It’s easier, isn’t it,” he murmured softly in my ear as I struggled to force my breathing to steady, fingers desperately pulling against his grip as he leaned into me. His skin was somehow more intimidating than his robes, pale and flawless beyond the jagged scars. There was no safety net, no layers of black cloth separating us.  
“It’s easier to just lose the responsibility of getting hurt.”  
“Is that what you did?” I spat, forcing venom into my voice through my tears as I pushed against his arms desperately for air. “Is that what—what you tried to do, when you killed yourself?”  
The Undertaker’s entire body went rigid. The room silenced.  
“Do it, kill me, I know you want to,” I mocked. “Or for all your reaping, do you fail to kill; first yourself, and then me—“  
He launched me across the room so hard, I was ready to die upon impact of whatever I hit; his aim was unfortunately accurate, and I slammed into the couch with such velocity that it slid backwards across the floor and hit the wall before rebounding another foot. The impact jarred me hard enough to eject me from the cushions, and I fell flat onto my stomach, face down on the floor.  
All of the pain finally culminated for me, and the adrenaline-fuelled endorphins began to course through my blood, igniting my skin and clouding my mind in temporary satisfaction. I pressed my forehead to the cool floor.  
Allowing myself a few moments of recovery, I opened my eyes and glanced down at my stomach. No blood, which was a good sign. I focused on my breathing. Slow, long, cold breaths.  
Eventually, I tuned back in to my surroundings, the dark room flickering in and out of my vision as the lamp fuel ran low. Without shifting my body, I turned my head slightly to gaze out into the room.  
The mortician was standing next to the lamp, shadow cast dramatically to the side as he stood with his hands on his hips. His pale skin was highlighted orange, bright eyes shining violently against the darkness. With a curious and bemused smile, he was watching me. Just... observing, angelic hair draped in elegant strands about his shoulders. The white glowed like hot fire in the light.  
“What?” I snapped finally, slowly shifting to sit up and lean back against the couch. “What more could you possibly want from me?”  
“I am simply enjoying the show,” he chuckled lightly. The room was too warm.  
Narrowing my eyes, I pushed myself up onto the couch and tucked my legs in. “Rude.”  
He shrugged and stepped towards me. “It is not as though it is to your detriment. Although,” he murmured, hand snapping forwards before I had a chance to pull away. He grabbed my jaw tightly and forced my face to the left. “I did hit you a little harder than I had intended. But the handprint should fade within the hour.”  
“Excellent,” I snarled, without any real anger, as I pushed his grip away. “Well done.”  
“Thank you,” he giggled and ignored the sarcasm. “Too kind.”  
When he moved to sit at the other end, I stretched out lazily and grinned up at him. “Sorry. No room.”  
Quirking an eyebrow, he smirked and stuck his foot under the edge of the couch. Suddenly, the entire sofa tilted onto its back. Unprepared, I slid awkwardly from the seats onto the backrest portion of it, and the Undertaker quickly flipped the couch back up towards him, launching me into the air. I panicked and screeched lightly, but instead of landing painfully on the floor or being flattened against the ceiling, I was deposited—somewhat chaotically—into the Undertaker’s waiting grip.  
Being held bridal style was a whole new kind of helplessness.  
As I first felt his arms touch me, I winced and froze up, tensing to the point that my jaw began to ache. One hand went below my knees while the other held my shoulders against his chest tightly.  
I was afraid of opening my eyes. I could sense that he was waiting, steely chartreuse locked on my face as he anticipated the fear in my expression. After a brief moment of deliberation, I sighed and nuzzled my nose into his shoulder, relaxing my posture. He was warm. It was as though I had transferred my anxiety to him; as I slackened, so he tensed up momentarily before he chuckled and spun.  
My stomach did a weird flip when he lowered us to the couch suddenly, me draped across his lap and still supported against him atop his right arm. His free hand ran up my leg lightly, resting on my hip for a moment before sliding up my ribs and over my shoulder. Then I felt his mouth against my throat, very gentle, just ghosting over my ear as he leaned his cheek against mine.  
Hm. How strange, this appreciation.  
The mortician sighed, and I shivered involuntarily as his breath ran across my ear and down my spine. He laughed once, quietly, and brushed his hand down my arm, smoothing his palm across my skin.  
I waited pensively with my eyes pressed closed, feeling my shallow breaths reflect back against my chin off of his shoulder.  
At some point, his fingers curled around my hand and guided it towards him. Laying my palm flat against his own chest, his voice was low and soft in my ear.  
“Do you feel... the nothingness? There is only silence inside, waiting for me, every night,” he whispered. “When I am beneath water, I hear nothing of my own.”  
I scowled, vision still dark. “You... really miss them, don’t you?” I murmured gently.  
His grip on my hand tightened. “Whom?”  
“Whoever you’re trying to bring back.”  
He laughed humourlessly and released my fingers, wrapping his arms tightly around my shoulders suddenly.  
“The person that I miss,” he began slowly, fingers weaving into my hair as I leaned against him tiredly. “Remarkably, has little to do with my experiments. They did not simply die...I do not... I do not know... what happened,” he hissed, voice tight. “I was not... I was not... I—I failed—“  
He choked.  
“Hey, woah, it’s okay,” I said automatically, taken aback by the sudden emotion. “You didn’t... fail. There’s no way that you can just fail, usually there’s more than one person to blame somehow... do you...” I felt so weak. I could offer him nothing, I was in a more vulnerable position than him. “... do you want to talk about it?” The words made me cringe. Is that all I could say? Is that the best I could do? It was practically nothing.  
I drew back to look at him as he laughed. He wasn’t laughing to be mean, not laughing at me, just a self-pitying chuckle, which quickly devolved into a sob. Doubling over, he laid his head on his arms, draped across my stomach. His hair fanned out into a blanket. Habitually, I fiddled nervously with one of the soft white strands while he cried.  
Eventually, I forced my confused and panicked heart to slow, and ran my hand comfortingly over the back of his neck, pulling my fingers through his hair in soothing ritual.  
“You confuse me,” I murmured after a while. “Is that part of your plot?”  
He stifled another sniffle and coughed. “What, you believe I am going to confuse you into obedience?”  
“Well I don’t know!” I snapped defensively. “You’re clever, and that’s dangerous.”  
“I’m dangerous for more than a little bit of wit. I carry a scythe, and my... pitiful human emotions are what you are concerned about?”  
I lifted my eyebrows, glancing over at the sputtering lantern. “I’ve been hurt by emotions more times than I’ve been hurt by a scythe.”  
“Shakespearean,” he chuckled humourlessly, finally flipping his hair back and straightening up. Wiping at his wet cheeks with his pallid hands, he shook his head. “Humans,” he muttered despairingly, eyes locking on my face. Then his features sharpened and he carefully pressed his fingers beneath my chin, tilting my head up. “I really did hit you quite hard, didn’t I?” He clicked his tongue. “That may bruise yet.”  
“It hurt,” I said dumbly, before pulling back and shifting my attention. “The lantern is dying.”  
His gaze followed mine. “So it is.” With a quick smirk, he tossed me forwards, stood himself up, and kicked the couch to slide beneath me as I fell. Walking around it casually, he picked up the lantern and lit another lamp in the far corner of the room, perfectly in time; the flame in the first one sparked once and died. With a new, consistent, soft warm orange glow illuminating half the room, he made his way back to the couch, which was now about five feet from the wall.  
“Show off,” I hissed bitterly, adjusting myself on the sofa. With a single high-pitched laugh, he kicked the edge again. I gripped the seams of the cushions desperately as the apparatus slid back across the floor before bouncing against the wall, jarring me.  
He spread his hands and grinned. “It’s like nothing ever happened.”


	12. Chapter 12

The first thing that went wrong was with the lighter. I knew I had to light these candles; if I couldn’t light them all, I wouldn’t be able to see through the mist.  
Each gravestone was bordered by two small tea-lights, all shrouded in heavy fog, so dense I couldn’t see past five feet.  
The lighter started to sputter and die, and I turned to express concern about this to my companion, but realized I didn’t have a companion; not one I recognized but I knew he was there. Was it...who was it?  
I ran out through the woods, fleeing the dark cemetery that I couldn’t light. A glistening creature started to amble up my street, and I saw it past him. It was coming to eat me. Such a paralyzing fear gripped my insides, I felt tears dripping freely, as I pointed over his shoulder desperately, wordlessly. Panic. Turn around. It’s coming. My voice wouldn’t work. Come on, come on, come on— work, damn it! Speak! I was going to die, should I flee? No, run—spin—back to him, the only chance at life—ga—  
“-aaAAH! -GAHahh—! nnff— monstert— err-bvrr—“ I sobbed, slurring nonsensically as I struggled to pull my mind out of the darkness. A flattened skull of stone hovered in front of my vision, grinning out against a pitch black background. “..—vvvvaaAAAH!!—nnnh!— pleesk, mmm-m-m-m-m—“  
“Relax,” a voice hummed softly.  
Confused and disoriented, I pushed against whatever I was laying on— his chest, I think— before falling off of the couch. Shaking and sobbing, I pulled myself in a random direction along the floor in the dark.  
“Oi— come back here,” he mumbled, voice a little heavy with sleep. “Are you... what’s... what’s wrong?”  
The mortician slid off the couch and landed on the ground next to me, fumbling to try and find me in the darkness. I curled up blindly and wept, heart hammering and hands shaking.  
“Am I alive?” I whimpered. “Am I awake? If I turn on the light, they’re outside; they will see it, they will come, dear god, close the window!—“  
“Shh,” he whispered, finally tapping my shoulder with his hand. Sliding up to me, he pulled me up against his chest, pressing his frigid hand against my forehead as I shook and cried. I couldn’t calm down.  
“Close the window,” I gasped, half of my mind still asleep as I grasped wildly for his arm.  
“Nightmare,” he mumbled softly into my hair. “You’re awake now.”  
“Don’t—nn—leave—“  
Muscles tensing, he froze. “You... wish to be alone?”  
“No! Don’t leave!” I wailed.  
His arm was secure across my left shoulder, hand still against my head.  
“Despite what you may feel, or may have seen, you are alive,” he murmured tiredly, dragging us both back to the sofa and falling unceremoniously onto the cushions in the darkness. I flattened myself on his chest and let him pet my hair and soothe me back to sleep. 

The morning was a fresh hell of embarrassment.  
“Why did you even wake up?” I demanded harshly, glaring down at him and shoving the hand that was rubbing my shoulder away.  
He stretched lazily and yawned, flashing me a slightly confused look. “Because it is morning...?”  
“I meant in the night,” I hissed, drawing my arms in and crossing them shyly.  
After a single glowing blink, he laughed and stood from the couch. “Because you were screaming...why else?”  
I reddened. “I was not screaming! I was—“  
“Sorry,” he mocked, waving his hands defensively. “Loudly protesting, then.”  
“Fuck off!” I shrieked, wishing that I had another shoe to throw at him as he giggled and waltzed to the edge of the room, pale hair lighting up in the soft beams of sunlight and flickering hypnotically as he danced across the wooden floor.  
“I am going to hunt down clothes and food. Do not think,” he chastised suddenly, whirling around to face me as the glowing white strands draped down his back and fluttered to rest on his bare shoulders. “That I have forgotten your purpose. You are not getting away so easily; however, I am waiting until you are healed. It should take another week, with the medication, at which point I expect you to continue your work with the souls, yes? How many are you down to... two, left, is it? Or is it three?”  
My heart sank, fluttering anxiously.  
“I—I think it’s three,” I whispered, panicking at the prospect of being shredded by the reels again. “I’ve only ....used.... two.”  
Suddenly his posture, previously aggressive and confident as he leaned an arm up against the doorframe, softened. His hand slid down to his side, and in the pale light of the morning, he seemed as powerless as a phantom; a white ghost as he stood sadly before me, glittering green eyes hooding themselves beneath pallid lashes as his smirk dropped away. Then he shook his head and spiked a short laugh before pulling open the door and practically flying away down the staircase.  
I rubbed my eyes tiredly and blinked in confusion. ”He’s insane,” I whispered under my breath.  
Stretching and cracking my back once with a satisfying pop, I ran my fingers through my hair and glanced at the long and thinly branching stark white scar that now ran up my arm. Quite the difference; something I would have to somehow explain to anyone who saw it, back in my timeline. Maybe I would just wear bandages every day, and just say it’s aesthetic...  
“Aesthetic,” I gasped. “I can just say it was scarification!”  
Yeah, right up the centre of my palm. Real likely. I cursed.  
Until I got out of here, it didn’t matter, anyway.  
I followed him down the steps, less enthusiastically than he had vanished. Down in the kitchen, he was already re-robed and preparing tea.  
Glancing at me over his shoulder as I slid into the room, he seemed to remember something and reached up into a cupboard. I paid him minimal attention. Seating myself at the little table against the wall, I rubbed my hand down across my right arm. It still felt strange without the bandages.  
Then a small cup was set in front of me. I recognized the dark liquid.  
“Nope,” I stated, folding my arms and leaning back in the chair. “Not happening.”  
He glared at me, somewhat confused, as he also leaned back, hips against a counter. “It’s medicine,” he argued.  
“Yeah I know,” I snapped. “Hence why I won’t be fucking drinking it! You will have to force this healing process every step of the way, mate. You brought this hellish punishment upon me, you must also suffer the consequences.”  
He rolled his eyes. “You are a sad excuse for a victim, actively searching for ways to get yourself physically abused just because you think it’s fun.”  
I sent him a scathing glare. Gritting my teeth as I stiffened in my seat, I hissed:  
“I do NOT —search— for abuse, goddammit. That’s all in your sick and twisted head! You’re insane!”  
“And you,” he murmured in even return, glancing at me darkly over his shoulder again through a part in his hair, “are very strategically shortsighted if you believe disobeying me will provide you any rewards. You will only be kept here longer, and in less comfortable conditions.”  
“Do you have any human empathy left? Do you have any idea the pain that you caused? Just casually tossing me down those stairs as though I were absolutely nothing!” I screeched, curling up in the chair and hiding against the wall as he slowly spun to face me.  
There was a moment of silence before he smiled halfheartedly. “Your scars show that pain, yes? The pain of fighting the memories?”  
“I hardly had a choice, barely had a chance to fight!” I snapped.  
He sighed and pulled his hair back over his shoulder away from his face, unbuttoning the top three clasps on his robes and allowing the shoulders to slide off, revealing his chest again; the scar around his throat, across his eye, across his chest, along his shoulder and down his arm.  
His gaze was shadowed by sadness as it fixated on me.  
“Neither did I,” he murmured.  
My heart froze up for a second. “I—you— but you—“  
He shrugged his robes back on over his shoulders, leaving the throat gaping open as he leaned back against the counter. Levelling his hooded glare at me, he set his lips in a line. “What?” He challenged quietly. “What did I do?”  
“You bloody killed yourself!” I hissed quietly, lifting my arms up across my chest defensively.  
With a ponderous look, he slowly ran his tongue over his teeth and pushed forwards off of the counter.  
“Are you suggesting,” he hummed, feigning contemplation as he slowly sauntered towards me.  
After a temporary freeze up, I launched myself out of my chair to flee across the room. The narrow confines of the kitchen were covered too quickly by a sweep of his arm, and I was soon trapped, back against his chest, his arm hooked around my throat.  
“Are you suggesting,” he whispered softly in my ear again, his other hand tracing its way across my stomach and securing his arm around my waist as he swayed back and forth gently. His frigid fingers wrapping around my waist were itchy. Then he took a deep breath in and sighed against my skin. I leaned my head away as white hair draped down over my neck. “Are you suggesting that my suicide... that any suicide... is a voluntary decision? Do you think,” he murmured, breath running over my cheek as I strained against his grip. “That somebody killing themself is a choice? Because if so,” he continued, readjusting his fingers to dig into my skin more aggressively to immure me again as I thrashed. “Your mind is far less valuable to me than originally planned.”  
My blood ran icy cold. “Of course not—that’s not—what I meant!” I gasped, breath escaping as he gripped me harder. “And—I’m sorry! For that!”  
His posture suddenly stiffened. After a moment of silence, me holding my breath, the mortician released his grip, catching me again as I nearly stumbled to my knees at the sudden drop.  
“You are sorry?” He asked, voice shifting into something less aggressive.  
I caught myself against his arm before spinning to look at him him in panic. His hands took hold of my shoulders and suddenly I was face to face with bright glittering green.  
“Uh—well, yeah, I guess so,” I muttered shyly, trying and failing to twist out of his grip awkwardly.  
“For what?”  
“I—I mean—that any of it happened, to you,” I offered. “Nobody deserves it. Nobody deserves to be forced to the brink of suicide. And,” I added quickly, wrapping my fingers around his sleeve cuffs and gazing up at him. “No one deserves to be forced to watch... someone that they love... be taken away from them.”  
The mortician’s eyes widened, stunned.  
“Yet... I...” he faltered on his words, chartreuse jading over as his grip on my arms seemed to tighten, fingers twitching and feeling at the curves of my shoulders.  
“It’s not fair,” I mumbled soothingly, slowly leaning forwards and looking up at him with eyes of imploring acceptance.  
“It never was meant to be fair. It... never is... fair,” he mumbled.  
I pushed on. “And it’s okay to feel...lonely.” Tilting my head up, I went on my toes, eyes lowered. “Are you lonely?” I asked softly, barely an inch away.  
Seconds passed, with him holding me rigidly, desperately, seemingly trying to speak. Slowly, his eyes glanced down at mine, and I met him warmly when he kissed me.  
His grip slid down to my waist as his mouth hesitantly brushed mine, and I pushed towards him and caught him up in the warmth of the moment. His skin was cold. I used the collar of his robes to hold him a little closer.  
“You are lonely,” I murmured softly as we broke apart for a second.  
His eyes closed and he shook his head. “I have never been lonely.”  
“Yet you have always been alone,” I whispered. “And then... the one time you weren’t... it was taken from you.”  
I kissed him again as he began to weep. I could feel his silent heart breaking, just enough to let me in.  
“I am the... taker in the situation,” he breathed back, brow knitted.  
“You are an under-taker,” I replied. “You don’t take nearly as much as you should.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Random Girl Who Loves Hot Anime Villains requested that a chapter be posted today, as it is her birthday; I oblige. :) I hope you enjoy. I know it’s late, I hope it is still April 19th wherever you are. Happy birthday, TRGWLHAV <3

“So. What is your next step in your scientific process?” He inquired, leaning back in the chair at his desk as I glanced up from my book.  
I blinked. “Oh... with the souls?”  
Nodding, the mortician gestured vaguely with his hand, bringing his boots up on the desk. “Indeed. I presume you to be nearly completely healed by now, if not fully. I will check tonight. It is getting dark, how can you even see that?” He chuckled, suddenly lifting himself and moving to light the two lanterns in the room.  
I shrugged, still curled up sideways in an open coffin, swathed in long black robes. “I hadn’t noticed. And, for your first question... I now know that they are something inorganic, and so they are not actually physically attached to the body... somehow, I theorize that they are linked through the conscience, but... I don’t know how to get there,” I sighed in frustration. “That exact thought has been bothering me in the back of my mind for a little while now.”  
“You need to access the soul itself?” He asked, tennis ball eyes flickering up to meet mine through the silver as he lit the other lantern across the room.  
Folding my book, I draped my knees over the edge of the coffin and ran my hand over my mouth thoughtfully. “I think that’s probably the best place to start now.”  
“That can be arranged,” he murmured, weaving his way back through the scattered coffins to crouch next to mine, folding his arms on the edge and resting his head on them. “Remember how you nearly got absorbed, when you first touched the memories?”  
“Unfortunately,” I replied, narrowing my eyes.  
“That’s your access to the soul. Follow where they take you; you just have to be careful, and maintain your connection with your physical body. If you lose your soul in the midst of their memories, I can come retrieve you, but I may not be able to recover all of your reels once they get tangled; you would lose memories entirely. You would become a different person. Does that make sense?”  
I swallowed thickly. “Uh...yeah. Okay. Shit. This sounds less and less fun the more you talk,” I laughed weakly.  
“I’ll be with you,” he hummed, patting my leg and rising to his feet. “I will help you. Despite my various... cruelties,” he murmured, fingers twitching anxiously at the collar of his robes. “I do understand that what you now face is a more monumental task than simple memory extraction. I will help you. Presuming of course, that you continue to help me.”  
“Are you threatening to leave me in someone else’s memories if I piss you off?” I asked, appalled. “I feel like that would be quite a permanent consequence that would be detrimental to both of us. You may want to rethink your choice,” I offered nervously, setting the book aside on the cushions of the casket.  
He brushed a lock of hair off his shoulder and held out a pale hand with a suspiciously warm smile. “I trust that it will not come to that. Regardless, it is an issue for the morning.”  
Sighing, I took up his grip and allowed the mortician to pull me to my feet. “Very well.”  
He giggled. “You are starting to talk like me.”  
“No I’m not,” I snapped. “You’re just not used to having more than one clever person in the room.”  
“Come. I will draw you a bath and we will look at your stomach, and see if you can get back to work tomorrow.”

I stepped out of the hot water into the waiting towel, and the Undertaker’s arms fell around me as he wrapped the ends across my shoulders. He had started a fire in the little metal box in the corner of the upstairs, and the three lanterns lining the wall lit the entire floor in a dim orange glow. The wooden floorboards were comfortingly warm as I padded my way upstairs. Following closely, the mortician unbuttoned his own black outer robes and slid them off his shoulders, discarding the clothes off to the side and running his hand through his hair. Standing awkwardly in the the centre of the room clutching my black towel, I looked at him expectantly and waited.  
“Here,” he offered, dragging a blanket off of the couch and spreading it out across the centre of the floor with a flourish. “Sit, and I will unwind your bandages.”  
I did as I was told, sitting cross-legged on the quilt. I brought the towel up to my hair as the mortician settled himself behind me, long black nails picking at the edge of the cotton strips until he apparently managed to find a corner to lift. One of his frigid hands pressed flat against my side as he slowly peeled back the bandages. Occasionally, the cotton snapped, and he had to scratch at a new spot to find the next edge. New scars were slowly revealed; from the centre of my stomach out, a bright white spiderweb— like shattered glass— spread out up to my ribs.  
“Lie down.”  
Curiously gazing at the pattern, I leaned back on my arms, and the mortician moved around to face me. His frigid fingertips ran over my stomach a few times, feeling at the ridges of the scars.  
“They seem healed,” I observed tiredly. “They don’t hurt.” There were little white circles along each line from where the mortician had stitched.  
“Good,” he replied softly. “I am glad.”  
Even though it meant my last hope of procrastination was shattered, I was glad as well; I would be one step closer to getting home.  
“Come sleep,” he murmured, after quietly watching my face for a few moments. “You must sleep away this nervousness. You will be stronger tomorrow.”  
I shook my head and leaned back. “Just give me a little more time,” I whispered. “Now that the plan is actively set in motion, I’m not quite ready for tomorrow yet.”  
The Undertaker’s eyebrows jerked up. “Very well,” he sighed, laying beside me with a few inches of space between us on the floor. Lifting his arms, he pulled his long white hair from beneath himself and flipped it out to fan across the blanket.  
Staring up at the shadows of the ceiling, which flickered and danced in the lantern light, I folded my hands on my chest and took in a slow and careful breath.  
I heard him shift.  
“Are you alright?”  
“Are you?” I riposted.  
Without opening my eyes, I listened for him to move again, but he remained still. “...fair.”  
Silence descended again.  
“You are anxious about the memories.”  
“I am anxious about you overestimating my skill,” I replied. “I may need more rescuing than you realize. I might slip between your fingers.”  
Then something clicked in my brain, as the last word left my mouth. “And you... you are worried about the same thing,” I realized. “You are anxious that you might lose again.”  
The mortician hesitated. After a moment, a comfortable chuckle echoed through the candlelit room. “I have put far too much effort into keeping your foolish human hide alive to simply let you get preventably shredded due to malpractice. Have no fear.”  
I sighed. “One of us is human and still feels human emotions, Undertaker.”  
“Hey!” He protested defensively. “I can still feel emotion!”  
“Sure,” I opened my eyes just to roll them before I flopped over, laying across his chest. He tensed up and grabbed my shoulders in fright before relaxing again.  
“Now try and pretend to feel empathy for one more night, and I’ll sleep,” I murmured.  
His pallid fingers slowly combed through my hair soothingly, and I shut my eyes. 

The next morning passed routinely, my hands shaking in anxiety, near silence tensely falling between us right up to when we both stood at the top of the stairs. The entire last 24 hours had felt clipped, shrouded in sudden nervousness. This may be another critical point. I had escaped the dungeon for so long, and made so much progress; all of it could go completely backwards if either of us made a single small mistake. Was I ready to go back? Did I have a choice? Not really... the glow of the memories seemed like such a distant thought, as though it had been a dream after all that had occurred.  
I looked down at the body on the desk, still intact, only illuminated by the fire the mortician had built up in the corner again.  
“After you,” the Undertaker offered, spreading a pale hand forwards into the darkness.  
I glared at him. “Not going to throw me again?”  
Before he could respond, I stalked down the stairs and crossed my arms tightly over my chest. I was dressed in his long robes once again. Refusing to look at the body, I stared morosely at the corner of stone.  
I heard the mortician sigh and follow me, and then came the screaming green wind. Covering my ears, I doubled over and tried to block out the wails of death until the emerald light beyond my eyelids dimmed in place of white.  
Cracking my eyes open, my bad mood was eradicated upon the breathtaking sight of the memories.  
They looked the same as always; mesmerizing, glittering dangerously. The Undertaker watched me from across the table.  
After a few moments of eye contact, I broke the silence. “So what, I just reach out and dive in?”  
“Recall your objective,” he murmured. “You are trying to find some sort of base code, the beginning— where the soul connects to the body naturally.”  
“I’m going to have to sort through their memories chronologically,” I mumbled to myself, slowly approaching the body.  
“I don’t know what this will be like,” the mortician shrugged, dragging his scythe along with him as he moved to stand next to me, gazing up at the reels as well. “But we will be fine.”  
“You will be,” I murmured.  
Something I couldn’t read passed across his face.  
The pearlescent white reels pulsed calmly in front of me.  
“I will shear any memories that try to attack you,” he offered, flipping his scythe so that the massive black blade curved over his shoulder.  
“Thank you,” I replied softly, surprised.  
When he offered nothing more, I took a deep breath and pushed up my sleeves. “Back in, we dive.”  
My fingers darted forwards and clasped a film panel.  
It was slippery in my hand, and instantly, the chaos of agony roared up. Brilliant blinding white surrounded my vision, and my own shriek was drowned out as I was dragged forwards into the past.  
I was instantly dropped, as I simply let my consciousness be guided into the chaos. For a few moments it was a strange vortex of darkness and confusing colours; I felt like I might faint.  
Then, suddenly, I was standing in front of a mirror, looking back at a much younger version of the body on the table.  
“O-okay,” I murmured, my voice coming out deeper than I was used to. I glanced down at my hands in amazement. I wasn’t me anymore; I was a 20 year-old version of the senior man lying on the table.  
“Fuck, this is weird,” I whispered.  
“Dad!” My son called.  
“Shit!” I panicked and forced my mind out of the memory.  
Suddenly my feet were back on the concrete floor of the morgue. I bent forwards on the desk.  
“Nothing,” I gasped, suddenly dizzy. “I couldn’t really see... anything of importance.”  
“You’re doing well.”  
Rubbing at my eyes, I let that memory drift away. Pushing my hand in again, through the tangled centre mass, I gripped another reel and let myself get dragged under.  
I was even younger, dragging a stick through dust in the crack of a sidewalk. Oh my god, it was hot here.  
“G’day Avery,” a little girl rode up near me slowly on her bicycle. I analyzed her. No connections that I could see.  
“Avery,” I mumbled.  
The girl gave me a confused look. “Are you alright?”  
I blinked. “Wait, you can hear me?” My voice was so youthful. It was strange.  
She giggled, blonde curls bouncing. “Of course I can hear you, do not be so weird!”  
My muscles tensed. “That... doesn’t make any sense,” I whispered. “You shouldn’t be reacting to me normal time. Isn’t that changing the memories? This should be set in stone by now,” I muttered, growing more concerned with every word.  
I snapped my eyes closed. When I opened them, to my horror, I was still facing a girl in Victorian clothing, who was now looking at me rather fearfully.  
“Avery, stop it!”  
“You stop it!” I snapped, panicking and falling back to the cobblestones. I covered my eyes with my elbow and tried to force myself back to the mortician.  
I fell back from the desk into the cold darkness.  
The Undertaker made a startled noise off to my right. “Goodness! I was getting concerned!” He gasped, and I glanced up at him, slowly lowering my elbow in a daze. He was kneeling next to me.  
“W-what? I’ve only been down for a few minutes, not even—“  
“You’ve been down for nearly four hours,” he murmured slowly.  
I shook my head. “N-no, I haven’t,” I stammered, feeling at the cold floor uncertainly with my palms. I was confused.  
“Be careful,” the mortician warned, pulling me back up to my feet.  
“Something weird is happening,” I gasped, leaning against him. “The people are reacting to me, things I say and do! I shouldn’t be able to change the past, should I?” I demanded. “What’s going on?”  
The mortician’s pale lips drew into a line as he gripped my shoulder, glittery green eyes glinting in the white light. “I’m not sure. Do you need to take a break?”  
I contemplated for a moment. My surroundings were coming into focus now.  
“No,” I sighed. “I’m overreacting. It’s really not that bad,” I noted, pushing away from the mortician and stepping towards the memories cautiously. “It doesn’t even hurt.”  
“It doesn’t have to hurt to be dangerous,” he argued.  
I didn’t listen. I was curious about the girl. Part of me wanted to see her again. I liked the summer.  
“I’m good, I’m good,” I waved him away and found myself drawn to the memories again. My hand glanced over a reel and I grasped onto it hungrily, eager to be dragged back into the old world.  
Older than the second time, younger than the first; I felt at my throat. Teenager. I coughed and glanced down at myself. I was dressed quite nicely, in a dark purple and navy coat with a white collar, standing in front of a blue wooden door.  
Glancing up at the grey sky, I knocked hesitantly on the door.  
It swung inward almost instantly, with such vigour that I flinched; and there was my blonde.  
She was older, too, in a pale pink dress and small kitten heels. She flashed a smile. How I always loved her red rosy cheeks. I hoped she would marry me someday.  
“You’re the girl,” I murmured.  
Confusion flickered across her face before she laughed and bounced to throw her arms around my shoulders. “Of course, Avery.”  
“That makes me...happy,” I replied, slowly placing my hand on the small of her back. I felt stronger. Happier, than I had ever been.  
She pulled back. “Are you alright?”  
After a moment of hesitation, I forced a smile. “Of course,...” I didn’t know her name. “...dear.”  
She beamed and tucked her hand into the crook of my arm. “Very well! Let us go?”  
“Go? Yes, go,” I agreed, still a little bit befuddled. It was too warm for this coat, and I took it off, and folded it over my other arm. Beneath, I was wearing old-fashioned dungarees and a pinstripe shirt.  
We began walking, down old, old, old London streets.  
“Melissa,” I stated after a moment.  
“Yes?” She asked, sounding timid as I stopped in the middle of a street.  
I turned to face her, glancing down. Ah yes, that’s why I had been so drawn to this memory. First kiss. My first kiss with Melissa, Avery’s first kiss with Melissa, his wife, my girlfriend.  
I leaned in, and met her mouth with mine. I could taste it, and feel her surprise. I gripped her wrists, gently, to discourage her from fleeing in embarrassment but not trap her. Melissa warmed up immediately, and pulled back after a moment.  
“Do you know my name?” I asked, softly, leaning my forehead against hers.  
“O-Of course,” she whispered in return. I loved how soft she was, so smart and kind. “...Avery.”  
I smiled. Of course. My name. Was Avery. Avery was my name. I was Avery, boyfriend to Melissa, and the man laying,.. laying.... where was I laying?  
I kissed Melissa again to avoid my own confusion. I just wanted to feel normal for a few moments. I never had felt entirely accepted. None of the other boys in the schoolyard had ever really liked playing with me, except Thomas, and then Melissa moved here and I had a friend, someone to love, and who loved me.  
I could invite her for supper. Mother wouldn’t mind.  
“Melissa,” I said again, fondly, beaming down at her confidently as I stepped back and took her hand. “Would you—“  
A sudden pain struck through my abdomen, and I clutched at my stomach. It felt like I had been punched, but in a long stinging line.  
I grunted and stumbled back, falling to the cobblestones.  
“Avery! What happened?” Melissa shrieked. The same pain suddenly blossomed in my shoulder, and I cried out, and then it fell across my back and struck my side.  
I couldn’t breathe. Reaching my hand up to Melissa, who’s face was pale in panic, I tried to form a word, anything. Her mouth opened again.  
“Eli!”  
My world stopped. Something felt wrong. I stared at her, until the pain bloomed on my stomach again. Wincing and curling up, I stared at her in betrayal. “That’s... not— my name,” I gasped. “Melissa, you know that’s not my name!”  
Her pretty little mouth, the mouth I had just kissed, opened again.  
“Eli!” The scream was wrong.  
I pressed my eyes shut, the cobblestones of the street digging into my forehead as I doubled over. The stinging line suddenly landed across my back.  
“Eli!”  
I opened my eyes.  
I was in darkness.  
It was cold. My clothes were different.  
The stinging blow fell on my shoulders again and I screamed, rolling away and holding up my shaking arms in defence, staring wildly at the mortician. He had tears in his eyes, and his hair was chaotically imbalanced, falling back into place as he raised the whip above his shoulder again.  
“Tell me that you’re Eli!” He shouted.  
“God, fuck! I’m Eli, Jesus! Agh!” I wailed, putting my arm over my eyes.  
Around me, the ghostly wind whipped up in a roaring cry. I peeked from beneath my sleeve just in time to see the mortician shred all of the memories, and ribbons of glittery white fell to the floor like snow around him as tears rolled down his face past his gritted teeth.  
I covered my eyes to breathe.  
After a few moments, I felt his hand on my shoulder.  
I curled up into him and wept.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anybody following along all three stories (HC, WIR, CD) this chapter may help put together more of the timeline puzzle. Also, it may spark some ideas as to how London will be introduced in the 4th story. enjoy! *strong angst lol*

“So what happened there?” The mortician inquired softly, kneeling in front of me as he placed a hot cup of sharp black tea into my shaky hand.  
I stared at the dark liquid, even as he folded his arms over my knees and laid his chin upon them to look up at me. Eventually, I collapsed under the pressure and met his gaze.  
“—uh, um... I guess I got a little... lost,” I mumbled shyly.  
“Lost?” He repeated, eyebrow quirking. “Lost how?”  
I drank to avoid the question for a few seconds. “I just went too far into the memories, I think.”  
He frowned. “I don’t understand. They’re not yours. Could you not keep that separate?”  
“They’re not my memories,” I whispered. “That’s the appeal.”  
Humming in concentration, he stared past the room and scratched idly at the fabric of my pants with a single nail while I drank my tea and pondered my own experience. It felt... heartbreaking, to become so quickly invested in something, and then have it ripped away again. Especially something as tempting as another life, one with somebody as wholeheartedly loving as Melissa. I had felt it. I wanted it.  
“You’re not going back tomorrow,” he murmured after a while, making me jump. His pale hand shot up and caught my teacup the second it left my startled fingers, holding it calmly in the air for me to reclaim.  
Suddenly offended, my hackles rose as I snatched the drink back. “You assume I’m incompetent?”  
“You proven you’re incompetent. It’s not about you,” he amended, staring me down. “But obviously there’s some sort of variable in mentality that’s been unaccounted for. I cannot...”  
Curiously, he fumbled with his words for a moment, before he blinked and glanced away. “I cannot allow you to endanger to process of the experiment.”  
I grinned tiredly. “You were going to say you can’t let me die.”  
“I was also going to kill you, at one point,” he snapped. “So let us focus on the truth of our reality, hmm?”  
Rolling my eyes, I brought my foot up to his shoulder and kicked him off me. In a whirl of silver hair and black robes, he fell back to the floor hard and stared at me in shock, mouth gaping like an indignant goldfish.  
“What the—“  
“I’m capable of fighting you off, I’m perfectly capable of handling the memories,” I snarled back. “At least when no one is sabotaging me!”  
“You think I would be sabotaging—“ he hissed, flipping his disheveled hair up out of his face with his arm and pinning me with a glare. “My own efforts at understanding the memories?”  
I shrugged, relaxing my posture back against the couch, finishing my drink and placing the cup off to the side. “...perhaps you cannot bear the thought of me completing my purpose, and you being left all alone again,” I purred with a teasing smile.  
He narrowed his eyes at me with a stupid look. “Then I could simply replace you with the newly animated cadavers.”  
“I have a unique quality that they never will, soul or not,” I murmured, spreading my hands wide. “Something that you desperately desire.”  
Lifting his eyebrows, he slouched forwards and flipped his palms up with tired expectancy. “And whatever could that be, dear Eli?”  
I blinked. “Well, I am afraid of you, and you just love that.”  
He scowled but quickly schooled his features and pushed himself to his feet. Dusting off his robes, he asked: “and you believe that I would not be able to intimidate anybody else?”  
“A corpse is not scared of Death,” I replied, tilting my chin up defiantly as he approached.  
He put his hands on his hips and quirked an eyebrow. “But you are?”  
I swallowed thickly, refusing to forfeit eye contact even as he grinned. My voice came out weaker than I wanted after a pause. “Naturally.”  
His glowing eyes analyzed my position before he moved, a process I was now familiar with. Unable to deflect his hands, I shook my head meekly when he leaned over me and smoothed his fingers down my throat, forcing me to look up at him.  
“You fear me; yet you brush off the challenge of an individual’s entire life trying to drag you into it,” he murmured. “You are a strange individual. Your priorities seem a little backwards.”  
“Pretty rich, coming from you, mate.”  
“You really ought to be nicer to the man in charge of your life.”  
“Everything about that statement makes me want to hit you,” I growled, narrowing my eyes as he chuckled.  
“Responsible for it at the moment, then. Better?” He offered, almost pouting.  
“Barely,” I hissed, craning away from his frigid fingertips. “Let go of my neck, creep.”  
He did as asked and suddenly turned away from me, stalking back across the room to fiddle with the gas trigger on a lantern. “You are not returning.”  
I blinked. “Yes I am, dammit! I can figure this out! I want to know why the memories could react to me in real time. That makes no sense,” I argued. “I need to know!”  
“No, you don’t!” He snapped, hands gripping the lantern. “I needed to know! Not you!”  
“Needed?” I prompted sharply. “Past tense? Did you just fucking change your mind, or what? Let me back at those memories,” I demanded. “It’s not like it can hurt me more than you already have!”  
His eyes snapped shut. “You have absolutely no idea what the bloody hell you’re on about!” He hissed. “You have no idea what you are dealing with, and you certainly do not know me as easily as you think you might!”  
“You’re a book, Undertaker! And an open one! You’re the classic tragic tale of somebody innocent meeting someone, falling in love, lover dies, and you become embittered and obsessive, caught up in your own immaturity because nobody ever taught you how to handle grief!” I flattened myself on my back on the couch, slamming a pillow over my face in anger before whipping it across the room, vaguely in his direction.  
There was a quiet pause, overridden in my mind by the hot anger consuming me.  
“They did not die,” he growled after a moment, still clutching the flickering lantern hard.  
I glanced back to him. He wouldn’t look at me, opting to stare aggressively and blankly at the floor instead.  
“What?”  
“They—did—not—die!” He snapped, glowing eyes meeting mine but seeing through me.  
I stilled, rage still overwhelming any empathetic response. “The hell is that supposed to mean?!”  
“It means—“ he dropped the lantern and pulled on his hair, the glass shattering at his feet. I flinched as the room darkened, now only illuminated by one as he frantically doubled over. “It means—that they ch-chose to leave,” he choked out. “Their records—their records, I looked for them,” he rasped, almost wailing. “I-I checked! They were not—cut, by any other reaper. They just disappeared one day. I never—“ he grit his teeth and sobbed once. “I never understood why— why they left!!”  
Wiping at his eyes as he fought tears, the mortician seemed to haphazardly spin around, trying to flee the room. I was up in a split second. Dashing forwards, I barely beat him to the door, sliding up to him and trying to brace my arms against his chest as my back hit the edge of the doorframe.  
“And what do you think you’re doing?” He hissed, arm whipping away from his face as he glared down at me.  
I had never seen so much rage in such a brilliant colour. Sharp green fire, ready to burn anything in its path.  
“Don’t leave!” I yelped, pressing myself flat against the wall in an attempt to hold the door closed. “Don’t you dare!”  
He punched the door, right next to my head, above my left shoulder. I shrieked and flinched away as his arm went right through the fragile wood. Shrapnel from the door snapped back into the room as he retracted his fist.  
“Go ahead!!” I screamed, voice high and panicked. “Go ahead!! Snap right through me, kick the damn door down, storm out!! And then what?!”  
His hair whipped around us as he broke through the door with both hands, sinking his arms in up to his elbows. I yelped and covered my eyes. Wrapping his arms around the other side of the door, to where I could sense his talons digging into the wood behind my head, he pulled himself closer to me and pressed his forehead against mine.  
“Do you want to die?” He demanded hoarsely.  
Crying, I shook my head and curled up against the door. Nowhere to go.  
“You are—pathetic,” he breathed, voice ragged with his anger as he continued to force himself forwards. I could only curl inwards, panicking and sobbing.  
He slid down the door a ways and rested his head in the crook of my neck, body still shifting against me in a desperate need to somehow express his anguish.  
“Tell me then, if you’re so bloody good at all this,” he growled, “why they left?”  
Offering nothing, I gagged on more tears.  
“Where did they go?!” He demanded, arms sliding out of the door to slowly rest alongside my head. I could feel his jaw tighten against my throat as he grit his teeth.  
I felt as though I might throw up. The tiny fraction of space between him and the door was overheated, and terrifyingly fragile. With the mortician leaning into me as he was, my torso was nearly entirely pinned to the door, and I could only hold my face in my hands and cry, the desperate sobs a mixture of complete panic and utter rage.  
He made a low noise of pain in his throat and slammed his hand against the door again, rattling it but not breaking it. Regardless, the deafening sound made me cry out in fear and I slid down the door as my knees gave out. Following slowly, his palms flat against the wall, the mortician crouched above me for a few moments, dragging in heavy breaths while I wept on my side on the floor.  
Eventually, he sank down to sit a ways in front of me, laying back so that his head rested in the dip on my side between my hip and my ribcage. I slowly stifled my wails into quiet hiccups.  
Shifting upwards, he leaned against the door and pulled me around him, to rest up against his shoulder. Suddenly panicked again, I strained away from his touch and he let me go, the grip in my robes dropping away immediately.  
Pausing as I leaned back, looking warily up into his face, I glanced above him at the shattered door.  
Running a hand through his hair, he followed my gaze and laughed tiredly before narrowing his eyes at me with a teasing smile.  
“What, jealous?”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> K so I just got off a 4 hr plane ride, running on like 6 hrs of sleep. Not terrible, finally home, but feel bad for the nervous businessman sitting next to me and glanced at my phone and undoubtedly saw me writing this violent fluff stuff. Poor blighter. K so. If this chapter sucks, forgive me. The idea struck and I was like, Ye man, I can probably write that, 60000 feet in the air. Passably. Also, I’m the maniac on airplanes that laughs really hard when we get major turbulence bc I mean, it’s just like a rollercoaster. It’s fantastic.  
> Good luck, enjoy, story is still on track, maybe finish it up by May... we’ll see baby. I’m going to sleep. <3 this gets a little sketch but like, trusssst in meee.. k bye

Rather than leave the door broken as a shattered reminder of our conflict, I made a game out of knocking it off of its hinges entirely.  
“How much do you want to bet that I can break that door down?” I challenged, glancing up from the bottom of the stairs. We had adjourned to the kitchen temporarily, to breathe and get new chamomile tea and some cookies. Food always made things better.  
He followed my gaze up at the top and chuckled. “You believe you can shoulder it into the room?”  
“Well I’d rather not launch myself OUT of the room and take the fall down a flight of stairs, thanks,” I replied. “How much do you want to bet?”  
“Neither of us has money,” he riposted.  
“Hold my tea.”  
“There is no bet,” he argued, wrapping his talons around my porcelain cup as I passed it to him.  
“I’ll bet you a... I don’t know, fuck, a kiss.” I blushed. It seemed so corny.  
The mortician seemed befuddled, grinning unsurely at me as his hair fell over his shoulder. “So if you lose, you have to kiss me, and if you win, I have to kiss you? I feel like... I feel like there’s nothing to gain or lose.”  
“No, see, since I’m the one betting a kiss, if I win, I get to kiss you. Or let you kiss me. If I win, a kiss, but if I lose, no kiss. See?”  
“These aren’t particularly high stakes,” he rolled his eyes.  
I shrugged and looked back up the steps. “Good, because I probably can’t do this. But I want to try.”  
I bounced away up the first half of the steps, pausing about four feet from the door. Following me closely, the mortician balanced the plate of cookies and both of our teas easily in his arms and watched with a wry smile.  
“Go ahead,” he snickered, nodding at the door when I glanced at him. “Any time.”  
I took a deep breath and jumped up the last couple of steps, pulling myself up along the hand railing. Tucking my shoulder in, I hit the wood, and heard a satisfying crack next to my ear. The door held firm despite my efforts. With a sigh, I shook myself and half-heartedly tried again, turning back to the mortician with a shrug.  
“Nah, I suck—Oof!” I turned just as the mortician put his boot up against my stomach. I resisted with my hands against the sole as he forced me up against the door.  
“Don’t be so quick to doubt yourself,” he grinned, before kicking me right through.  
Tumbling into the room in the midst of shattered wood, I landed on my backside and caught myself on my elbows, shaking my head as I slid across the floor.  
“Rude!”  
The mortician shrugged and stepped daintily around the slivers of door. “What? You should be happy,” he snickered, still balancing everything ridiculously precisely. “You won.”  
“You—“ I felt my cheeks redden and I glared at him, picking myself up from the ground and kicking aside a splinter and following him to the little picnic blanket in the middle of the floor.  
Lifting his eyebrows innocently, he gestured widely about himself and smiled before waving towards the platter of treats and my waiting cup. “It’s hardly my fault that you’re so skilled.”  
“Skilled,” I scoffed. “At getting shoved through doors?”  
He shrugged easily. “You broke the door down, is the point.”  
I narrowed my eyes. “I hate you.”  
“I expect my reward wrapped with a big red bow,” he snickered, reaching forwards and popping a cookie in his mouth.  
“Your reward for *me* winning the bet?” I challenged, crossing my arms over my chest and shifting my weight to one hip.  
He paused, eyes up to the ceiling as he debated. “You’re right, sorry. Your reward, not mine.”  
“Exactly. Now, *I* expect *my* reward hand-delivered,” I placed my hand over my chest grandly. “Preferably with a cherry on top.”  
“You can have cherry tart cookie,” he stated, gesturing at the space across from him. “And that’s the best I can do.”  
With a dramatic sigh, I flopped down onto the blanket. Between his two pallid fingers, he held out a cookie with red filling, and I stole it away happily, refreshing myself with the mild taste of chamomile flowers afterwards. Calming.  
The shattered lantern laid forgotten in the corner, a new one taking its place. The room was a bright, warm orange, and his silver hair glittered with his eyes as he leaned his chin on his hand.  
“I should remake this room,” he murmured, eyes analyzing the space around us. I popped another cookie while waiting for him to elaborate.  
“I had it very comfortable, a while back,” he gestured vaguely. “But I... destroyed it, when...”  
“When they left,” I murmured softly.  
“Not even,” he frowned. “I had... another. Not so like the first, but, not so different from myself.”  
“Are they... still alive?” I inquired carefully, sitting up and folding my legs in.  
“Oh yes,” he nodded. “I can only hope that I never see them again.”  
I was slightly taken aback by that comment. “What does that have to do with the room?”  
The mortician shook himself out of his memories. “Ah. Well, after the last time they left, I was sort of... enraged. I dismantled everything, every part of my life. I decided to try and, well, begin anew,” he explained quietly. “I did not want to be the same person any longer. Yet I feel that I cannot fundamentally change; and so, I am simply being more careful. Or, trying,” he sighed, rubbing at his eyes before blinking sadly at me. “It is difficult, as you have noticed.”  
I frowned in careful thought, pulling another drink of tea into my mouth. “Well, if you were unbearably temperamental, you have toned that down... you’re still a prick, and... a...a...”  
“Villain?” He offered.  
“That’s probably the perfect word,” I chuckled, glancing up. “Luckily for you, I happen to be a ‘victim’ that likes villains.”  
He smiled weakly and took a moment to drink as well.  
I waited for the perfect opportunity, winking at him over my cup. “Especially sexy villains.”  
Eyes widening, he coughed and spilled tea, dripping it into his cupped hand as his lips tightened, fighting a smile.  
I snickered into mine, trying to drink smoothly and failing as he glared at me indignantly. Delicately placing another cookie in my mouth, I leered at him and bit down, chuckling as he tried to recover, unable to swallow and unable to laugh. Finally forcing the liquid down his throat, he coughed again and chuckled out of embarrassment. “That was rather inconsiderate,” he chided.  
I shrugged. “But truly, hilarious.”  
Conversation died for a few moments while we feasted on the sugar.  
“So what did you do to... so scare this person away? And where are they now? The second one, I mean,” I inquired after a few moments.  
The mortician ran his fingers over his mouth shyly. “Horrible, horrible things,” he murmured softly. “Terrible. It was my duty to my... well, to my friend, I suppose. I am a voluntary guardian of sorts, to someone who is in the favour of the queen. An Earl. I often aid him when I can, and he desperately needed a favour in order to not be felled by Victoria. It was not entirely consensual on my part either. But at the time, necessary. Unfortunately, I allowed myself to detach. Rather than be compassionate, I allowed the task to become an outlet for my rage. They remind me so much... of myself... I find it difficult to maintain control. I hate it, I despise being near them,” he murmured, staring at the floor. “And they are still here in London, presumably.”  
“Who are they?” I pressed carefully, aware of the mortician’s... difficulty.  
He hummed, black nails tapping on the white porcelain. “They are extremely... dangerous,” he met my gaze. “They are more dangerous than myself.”  
I failed to mask my surprise, and he smiled sadly. “Indeed. London’s greatest stand-alone criminal as it stands. Not a mob boss, but a gang, a cult all of their own. Violent and ruthless. Scarred, from me, but even before. They had blood on their hands by the tender age of ten.”  
I felt myself pale. “Oh my god... how does that even happen?”  
With a helpless shrug of his dark and narrow shoulders, he blew a strand of silver away from his face.  
“Their parents are out of the picture. I am not certain as to how, but I imagine they’ve perished, one way or the other.”  
“That’s awful,” I whispered, putting my hand to my cheek with a grimace. “Poor soul.”  
“I have heard, however, that since their visitation to my shop, they have not murdered,” he sighed. “I can only tell myself that one positive arose from the cruelty.”  
“What is... what is their name, Undertaker?”  
He laughed. “Which one? They go by many. Dr. M is how they are known in the streets. Doctor Mortem.”  
“Ah.” I cast my eyes down. “I see.”  
A heavy silence settled.  
“Have you considered apologizing?” I offered. “I know it seems like nothing, but, sometimes it helps.”  
“I apologized in one way, and harmed them again,” he shook his head, cheeks reddening in shame. “I cannot trust myself to be near them.”  
Nodding in understanding, I finished my drink and placed the cup to the side. I glanced to him. The mortician was morose, analyzing his nails in dark contemplation.  
Well, can’t have that.  
I whipped a cookie at him. I threw it hard, and he dodged it in a panic, barely having time to duck.  
“No fun,” I pouted, throwing another one, less hard. “You’re boring.”  
He narrowed his eyes and stuck his tongue out.  
“Hey!” I snapped. “That’s a me thing! You’re not allowed to do that!”  
“I’ll do whatever I well please,” he stated mildly.  
“Do a flip,” I challenged.  
Head falling back, he laughed hoarsely. “Why on earth? Do you think I cannot?”  
“Nah, I just kinda wanna see it,” I shrugged, stretching my legs and pushing myself to my feet. “Because I can, and if you can’t, I’ve found something that I’m better at than you.”  
He narrowed his eyes. “You have not had the best luck with this type of challenge today,” he noted.  
I shushed him. “Come on, coward, do a flip.”  
“A flip how?” He sighed, also rising and pulling his long robes off over his shoulders, leaving him in his black pants and white undershirt.  
“Like a backflip, a standing backflip.”  
He smirked. “That’s it?”  
“I don’t believe you can do it,” I snapped. “You’re procrastinating too much.”  
Wordlessly, he lifted one foot up behind himself a small ways before kicking upwards in a circle, landing perfectly with his legs together and his arms spread wide. His hair had trouble keeping up with him, falling over his shoulder haphazardly.  
“Good enough?” He quirked an eyebrow.  
“Fucking, dammit,” I growled. “Now I have to do better.”  
“Indeed. Care to make a bet?” He giggled, tapping his teeth with his nail idly.  
“Not me,” I replied, bending backwards into a bridge, kicking upwards and doing essentially a slow handspring, rising back up to my feet before tucking up into a backflip and opening my arms challengingly.  
To my surprise, his green eyes widened. “I do not know if I can actually beat that,” he murmured slowly.  
I burst out laughing. “Really?!”  
“Well,” he pondered aloud. “I am a reaper, with heightening strength, speed, and general physical ability, however, I was never trained specifically in acrobatics.”  
“It’s just gymnastics,” I teased. “Try. It’s not like you’ll die.”  
With a frustrated sigh, he bent backwards as I had, and stopped with his palms on the floor, hair dragging behind him. “Now what?”  
I could hardly breathe, giggling madly at him. “Are-are you stuck?” I gasped.  
“No,” he lied.  
“Kick.”  
With a face of intense concentration, the mortician jumped up and brought his legs over his head, and reared up like he had been drowning. Off balance, he slid awkwardly to the floor, pulling his hair out of his face.  
“What a mess,” I shook my head.  
Before I had time to react, he spun and slid his leg out, taking me to the floor with him. Grabbing me by my shirt as I fell, he dragged me towards him. I screeched and twisted, trying to fight off his hands.  
“Dammit—jeu de mains, jeu de villain!” I scolded. “Leggo!”  
One pale hand buried itself in my hair behind my head, the other dragging me closer with a fist bunched in the fabric of my pants at my waistline. I planted my hands against his chest, glaring at him.  
The mortician’s pale lashes hooded his bright green gaze. “What a mess,” he chuckled mockingly, pressing his mouth over mine as I made to retort with some sort of expletive.  
I froze up at the warm confidence. His lips were gentle, familiar and strong, unfaltering in calm attention. I could feel his hair drifting across the sides of my cheeks softly, and then his hand slid between a gap in the clasps of my robes, cold fingers carefully and delicately running up my side. It was so gentle it nearly tickled me. Pleasantly distracting. I tried to make my movements slow and subtle, and I successfully got three buttons of his shirt open before he noticed. Breaking away for a moment, he glanced down and chuckled.  
“I didn’t even have to tell you this time,” he murmured appreciatively, voice low.  
With nothing to reply with, I blushed and lifted my mouth to his again, happy to feel his light breath across my lips as he responded, tilting his head and leaning down into me.  
I drew back again after releasing two more buttons, leaving the shirt hanging open.  
“Let’s play a game,” I offered, trying to not let my voice shake. I needed to wait, to hold off on completely going under subspace. That was next.  
“A game?” He questioned, eyebrows lifting in mild curiosity.  
“And make a bet,” I continued. “But we’ll actually need—well—a safe-word, for it.”  
“Lord,” he exclaimed, drawing back. “You need a safe-word for this? After all that has happened already? What on earth is this bloody game?”  
I snapped my eyes closed and sighed in frustration. “It’s not, like, how you think. But we need one in order for it to work. You’ll see,” I assured him. “Trust the scientist.”  
“Trust the scientist,” he snorted. “Very well, scientist, what is the game, and what is the bet?”  
“Let’s make the bet, and the safe-word, and then I’ll make the game,” I offered shyly.  
The mortician’s enticing chartreuse narrowed at me. “Very well,” he murmured hesitantly. “Let us make a bet on who has to fix the door, hmm? Loser of this... little game... has to complete repairs.”  
“Sure,” I shrugged, staring up at him and still sprawled across his lap. “Now, safe-word.”  
“I assume you will be the one requiring it,” he smirked and rolled his eyes.  
“Obviously,” I replied. “And don’t you roll your eyes at me, mister!”  
“Pick your damned word.”  
“Summer,” I offered, shrugging again. “It’s easy, because it’s my favourite season, and not very long to say.”  
The mortician smiled. “Works for me. Now what is this game?” His eyes were still analyzing my face, curious, and unable to help it.  
“Uh—well,” I began, somewhat unsurely. “Two agree on a safe-word. One person’s job is to convince the other that they have, in fact, forgotten the safe-word—that’s me—and the other’s role is to resist, and force them to ‘remember’ it, only stopping when the actual safe-word is used,” I finished quickly. “Whoever breaks first loses.”  
There was a momentary pause, his eyes jading over as he considered it. Then he chuckled, and glared at me suspiciously.  
“Quite a risky game,” he hummed, bringing his mouth down close to mine again. “Are you certain you wish to pursue it? As I believe I can win with ease.”  
“I think—I think you’ll be surprised,” I laughed nervously, drawing my hands up to my chest. “With yourself.”  
“This seems remarkably dangerous,” he murmured again. “Please consider carefully.”  
“I made the damn game,” I snapped. “It’s meant to push both people to their very limits. I want you to channel rage into this, since you seem to be... almost coping, or trying to. I can take it. I’ve thought it through. Do you want to play or not?”  
“Oh,” he snickered, eyes darkening. “I always want to play.”  
He scratched his nails into my skin and I retracted, twisting away from the sting. His grip in my hair tightened to hold me still.  
“I-I think I’ve changed my mind,” I whispered hesitantly, bracing my palm against his chest. He was warm.  
The reaper blinked at me, getting used to the idea. “Too bad,” he replied slowly, quickly slipping his hand away from my side. I stumbled for words and glanced away in embarrassment when his slim fingers made short work of the top few clasps on my robes.  
“N-no, seriously, Undertaker, I think—I think this is a bad idea,” I insisted, reaching up and trying to untangle his hand from my hair as I winced.  
He just chuckled menacingly, shoving me away from him. I fell onto my front, catching myself on my arms. Fingers curling into the back of my collar, the mortician lifted me to my feet roughly and whipped the robes down, pulling them off my shoulders and discarding them. I spun to face him anxiously just as he took a step forwards and tossed the robes behind him. I stumbled back and raised my hands, but he shoved against them anyway— not hard, but hard enough that I took another little jump back as I deflected the attack.  
Faster than I could see, he grabbed my wrists, dragging me to him before pinning my hands to my sides.  
My eyes widened and my posture tensed, and I stared up at him fearfully at the sudden proximity. “Er— I mean, I guess, I guess I could play,” I jittered. “It’s probably fine. I just, have to remember, that’s all.”  
I could sense him pause at the sudden switch of mentality, but he shook himself and pressed on. Meanwhile, I started to panic.  
“Excellent,” he purred, leaning against me and putting his mouth next to my ear as he ran his hands up and down my arms. Every time I moved them, his grip tightened in a painful warning. I felt his laugh reverberate down my spine and I shivered.  
“You act brave,” he rasped. “Yet your knees tremble.”  
Drawing back to look me in the eye with a lowered gaze, he ran his tongue across his teeth. “It betrays your fear.”  
“I—“ I had no time to reply as he slammed me against the wall with the one hand he wrapped around my throat. Off of the ground as he leaned into me, coincidentally helping to support my weight, I latched onto his arm and coughed once. The impact had winded me. Kicking at him wildly, I pulled on his fingers and started to choke. His grip relaxed, and I slid down, leaning over his shoulder as me pinned my hips up still with his. I took long and desperate breaths, pushing his hair off of his shoulder as I gasped. The adrenaline brought tears to my eyes.  
He chimed a laugh and stepped back very suddenly. I dropped to the floor, able to catch myself but too late to stand; I wound up half-beneath him, and he stepped onto my chest, just below my sternum, above where I had hit the desk. Adding pressure until I shrieked loudly, he smirked and pulled his pre-opened shirt down off his shoulders, sending it fluttering to the floor a few feet away with a flick of his wrist as he stretched, tilting his head back and closing his eyes for a moment; an action I had noticed that seemed to signal he was slipping into the sadistic frame of mind.  
“Gah— please, I-I can’t breathe,” I gasped, staring up at him with pleading and shining eyes as I struggled beneath his weight.  
He bent over slightly to look down his nose at me, smiling and shrugging contentedly. “Perfect.”  
“No!” I yelped. “Uh—safe-word! I-I can’t breathe, I don’t want to pass out—“  
“Safe-word,” he mocked. “Is that the best you can do?”  
Leaning down further, causing me to scream again, he put his hand to his ear.  
The ache in my chest was dangerous. I pushed against his leg and squirmed, twisting and kicking awkwardly against the floor. I couldn’t breathe, everything hurt; I pressed my eyes shut and grit my teeth as more involuntary tears of panic slid down my face. Lungs were burning. Muscles burning. Finally, he stepped off, and I gasped and curled over as my vision cleared.  
He stopped and tilted his head, just watching me breathe for a moment.  
Pale back curving as he bent, he ran his hands under my arms and lifted me to my feet. Too oxygen-deprived to engage, I slumped against him. The mortician ran his hands across my shoulders, digging his nails in beneath the blades. I squirmed weakly.  
“Nng— that hurts, dammit!” I growled, unable to move from his grip.  
In response, he sliced into my skin harder, and the hot little half-moons of angry flesh beneath his nails burned until a fresh wave of tears overtook me. I tried to curl forwards, to shy away— he pulled his talons down the muscles along my spine, and I arched back over his skeletal hands with a meek yelp.  
My throat was suddenly exposed, and his teeth just brushed against my skin, accompanied by soft kisses as he continued to bring his nails down and around before raking them up my ribcage. My heart fluttered in fear as I thought of his teeth breaking my skin. Shrieking, I fell away from him, dashing across the room.  
“Stop!” I pleaded. “I’ve— I can’t believe this— I’ve truly forgotten the safe-word!”  
The mortician’s white hair fanned out behind him as he materialized the whip, immediately lashing out to catch me across the side of my leg. I had no time to dance out of reach. The momentum of the stinging line made me stumble, and I turned to run out of the door. Maybe he would understand if I got out down the stairs, that I wasn’t joking. The whip hit the back of my knee, even harder than the previous strike, and I crumpled to the floor.  
Breathing hard, and still crying, I tried to drag myself, but the whip hit my hand in a very precise attack, and a red welt raised across it. I hissed and drew it in to my chest, folding in on myself.  
“Please!” I shrieked through my tears, wiping my arm over the wetness of my eyes desperately. “I can’t r-remember!”  
I felt the despair pooling in my chest as the mortician chuckled. “Shame; just means I can continue, I suppose.”  
Banishing the scalding whip into the air, he dropped down over me, knees on either side of my legs. His mouth covered mine, tongue running down my throat as I strained my head away.  
His eyes watched my face carefully as his fingertips dipped below the waistband of my pants, tugging them downwards hesitantly.  
“No!” I commanded, voice dropping into a serious panic. My mind went cloudy as I kicked wildly at him, barely managing to wiggle out of his grip. I escaped, but only temporarily.  
“Say the safe-word,” he growled.  
“I can’t remember!” I shrieked back, crying anew as he ran his freezing hands down the front of my hips. “‘S’-something!” I thrashed desperately, managing to flip myself over. He was going to take this too far, I could sense it, and I couldn’t figure out a way to make him realize I had forgotten it—  
“Oh my god, give me— give me a hint, anything!” I gasped, struggling to shove his hands away. My aim was hampered by my panic, as my arms shook. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t focus.  
He paused and frowned in contemplation, angelic form tensing. God, please.  
“I—it’s your favourite season,” he offered skeptically.  
A fucking beam of light. “And short to say!” I remembered suddenly, with brightening eyes and a hugely relieved smile. “Spring!” I gasped, smiling tiredly up at him with tear-streaks down my cheeks as I cradled my hand to my chest. A strange silence descended. “I can’t take this, I’m not—I’m not strong enough, Undertaker... oh my god, we won’t do consent-play again, fuck this...” I heaved another gasp of relief. It was a good thing that loophole was there. I could feel the endorphins coming now, igniting my skin.  
He grit his teeth and hit me across the face with the back of his hand.  
I screamed and flinched away, staring up at him in shock and betrayal as I fell back down.  
“W-what are you doing?!” I shrieked, my voice an octave higher in my panic. “I—“  
His palm snapped across my face again, so hard that my glasses flew off and skittered across the room.  
“What the hell?! Fuck, pineapple, cotton, penguin, winter, fall!—“ I started to just word-vomit commonly used phrases as I struggled to remember what the hell he wanted.  
“Say the safe-word,” he growled. “Say it!”  
“I—DID!” I sobbed, kicking uselessly.  
He hit me again. “Say it!”  
“I d-“  
And again. “SAY IT!”  
“Stop!” I begged breathlessly, cheeks stinging red. Each impact was harsher, stronger than the last, jarring me as bruising pain blossomed across both sides of my jaw. My skin was smarting angrily. I couldn’t get him to stop, I was too weak! I was physically too weak.  
He pulled his hand back up over his shoulder, and the way his muscles tensed, I winced and shut my eyes, cowering and lifting my hands weakly. This was going to hurt like a bitch.  
Then his hand shook once and fell, and he laid it along my throat gently.  
“I—did I?,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against mine. “It was—it was—was it spring?”  
I tried to slow my panicked sobbing. Between shaking breaths, I gasped and put my hand against his shoulder.  
“It—it was—” I gasped.  
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, and I felt a teardrop drip onto my cheek. I almost didn’t notice it as it blended with mine. “I don’t know what I was thinking—“  
“—summer,” I finished.  
Eyes wide, he drew back. I chuckled. “I win. But—holy shit, Undertaker, I think I might need an ice pack, and I really have no idea where my glasses went—“  
I flinched. His mouth was soft, warm and wet, but the pressure— the need— was so intense, it felt like I might collapse beneath the weight. Both of his hands were against my cheeks, softly, smoothing his thumbs back and forth across my skin. His lips were dry from his efforts.  
He broke away and returned immediately, and I kissed him back, face still stinging. His cold fingers helped the burn.  
He pulled back a little again, and although I kept my eyes closed, I couldn’t help but laugh.  
“What?” He sighed.  
“You’re cute,” I giggled tiredly. “You think you’re so evil.”  
“I cannot believe you! Did you set that up? The seasons?”  
“A little,” I slowly let my eyes open, to wink up at his brilliant sparkling green.  
His pale lips curled. “You are more of a menace than I, even to yourself,” he sighed.  
I blinked up at him and put my hands gently against his chest, which was ridiculously warm.  
“Lovely kisses. Now, please, Undertaker,” I chuckled hoarsely. “I really need an ice pack.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah baby, I am back, and boy have I got stuff for you guys. A) new chapter. It’s a decent length, not a whole lot of development seems to happen *BUT* it is sort of an important aspect, if you catch on to what Eli is doing, as to how the rest of the story will play out.   
> ALSO.   
> Some people have requested that I re-write these stories from the Undertaker’s perspective. Well. I am here to serve. I will shortly be publishing a new story called Memoirs of a Mortician, and it will contain the majority of Hotel California, When in Rome, and of course, Carbon Dating, all from Undertaker’s view. It’s quite interesting to try, actually; first chapter will be going up v shortly, it’s already done, just gonna proofread and stuff... anywho. Thx guys. Enjoy <3

“I’ll bet you that I can balance five cookies on my nose,” I said suddenly, fracturing the easy silence that had settled while he worked on repairing the door.   
The mortician had risen far earlier than I that day, to go and actually build the door itself, and was now hanging it back up on its hinges, glaring at his hands as the dark stain of the wood tainted his pale skin. It had taken up his morning and afternoon to sand and fit it properly, applying the metal hinges and locating the right screws and equipment. As such, he had recruited my help to stain it, but that was only a few hours ago; while the door was dry, when gripping it hard, the saturated colour would still bleed. It was now late evening. The sky beyond the window was a dark velvet purple once again, and a fire burned warmly in the little stove in the corner. My cheeks still aches slightly, bruised a dark colour despite the chilled ice pack I had held to them in the afternoon.  
“Why?” He scoffed. “And your nose is too round— you’d need a flatter one to succeed.”  
“Bite me,” I snapped, lifting the bone-shaped biscuits from the jar and placing them on my chest as I sprawled back along the couch. “And make the bet! I’m bored.”   
Tilting my head back, I ignored his mocking laughter and placed one of the biscuits on my nose, blinking a crumb out of my eye. Perhaps I hadn’t thought this through. That was alright; as long as he made the bet, losing it this time was perfectly fine.   
“What shall we bet on?” He inquired, before cursing as something metal bounced away down the steps. “Never mind. If you lose, you fetch that bolt for me, hmm?”  
“And if I win?” I asked slowly, trying not to move my jaw as I stacked another cookie in opposite orientation.   
The mortician sighed. “Bragging rights.”  
The third cookie tilted dangerously, and my eyes widened. I could sense his leering, cocky grin from across the room, watching the tower of biscuits tilt as the cookies scraped each other dangerously.   
“I got this,” I whispered.   
The fourth cookie slid right out of my nervous fingers, and my tower was disgracefully disassembled, cinnamon crumbs scattering across my face like raindrops as they got knocked apart.   
I cursed. Automatically jolting to catch them, I scowled at the mortician as he chuckled, folding his arms and lifting an eyebrow.   
“How did that go?”   
“Hush!” I snapped, flinging a piece of broken cookie across the room in his vague direction and storming up to him, slipping between the door and the wall and heading down the stairs. I could sense his sharp eyes on my back as he laughed and caught the biscuit.   
The morgue was dark and creepy, and I noticed more now the aura of cobwebs and cold, heading down the narrow creaky steps in the dark.   
“Undertaker,” I called, somewhat uneasily. “I can’t see anything, will you—would you mind bringing me a light?”  
His sinister laughter from behind was oddly reassuring as I paused on the steps.   
“Why don’t we make a bet?” He challenged.   
Beautiful. Yes, let us make a bet, reaper.   
“Find it in the dark and I’ll draw you a bath, put some kind of oil in it for you to relax. A nice little treat as the days get colder.”  
“Are the days getting colder?” I asked innocently. “I hadn’t noticed, since I’ve been outside once.”  
“No need to be bitter about it,” he chuckled, voice echoing distantly in the room above. “You have to win more bets to be taken to the Viaduct again.”  
I grinned to myself, hidden in the icy darkness.   
“You’re on.”  
Carefully picking my way down the rest of the steps, I tried to keep my eyes wide in the darkness, hunting for a slight glimmer of metal. I would check the landing first, and work my way up.   
When I reached the bottom, I sank to my knees. The concrete floor here was dusty and freezing; I ran my hands across it slowly, feeling blindly along the edges and corners before making broad sweeps. My heart began to beat in anxiety. The darkness and eerie silence surrounding me all tasted and smelled like death; childishly, an image flashed through my brain of some other horrid creature lurking in the dark beyond the door.   
I shook my head. The only monster to fear here was sitting at the top of the stairs.  
Jarred our of my thoughts as the side of my palm touched something, I hunted the sound of skittering metal and managed to snag the little bolt. Curling my fingers over it tightly in relief, I turned and leapt up the stairs three at once, hauling myself up with the hand railing.   
Haphazardly stumbling back in through the narrow opening, I dusted off my knees and held up the hand containing the little iron bolt.   
The mortician smiled appreciatively.   
“Well done.”  
As his frigid fingertips brushed against mine, I lifted my hand just out of reach with a taunting grin. “Say please.”  
With a startled and confused look, he chimed a single, rough laugh. The reaper set his screwdriver down on the floor and swept his legs beneath him, long limbs pushing him elegantly to standing so that he towered above me once again.  
I stumbled a step back instinctually as his silver hair drifted over his shoulders, reaching for me like angelic snares. His talons pulled me back by my collar, insistent and firm, yet with a distinct lack of his typical violence. My eyes widened and my posture stiffened as my heart rate doubled. Twisting away from him, I was immured as his hands snaked around my sides, gripping my wrists and dragging me to him, up against his chest. I froze in place. My fist was clenched firmly at my side.  
Leaning his head down over my shoulder, his fingers slowly pried their way into my right hand, loosening my grip on the bolt. The cold iron fell into his grasp as he spoke.  
“Please,” he murmured, voice dropping low and smooth; I could hear the smirk. His breath over my ear made me shudder. Autonomous sensory meridian response.   
I easily relinquished the bolt, and his overwhelming presence vanished. He stepped back, and as I turned to face him, took my chin with his index finger rather fondly.   
“You are such fun,” he giggled, green gaze hooded with white lashes. “Your eyes become so petrified and wide, you look like a little owl.”  
“Birdie to owl,” I sighed, rubbing one of my eyes tiredly. “Also, I won, again, so hurry up and fix your damn door.”

I half-napped and half-read a book about the various plants of Northern Europe that could cure a fever while the mortician finalized the hanging of the door and prepared the metal bath of hot water. An hour later, he reappeared, outer black robes having been banished back to the closet. Striding towards me, he flashed his dangerous white teeth and held out a hand.   
“Come along now.”  
I took a long breath in through my nose and planted my palm atop his, long pale fingers folding over my skin as he pulled me to my feet. The room was twice as warm when standing.   
Leading me down the steps carefully, he gestured through the dark main shop into the kitchen, lit brightly. Shutting the door behind us, we turned the corner into the hidden alcove with a small hallway, where a rarely-used tap that spouted dirty water into a sink and a stand-alone metal tub rested, now comfortingly lit by a metal lantern on either side. The room smelled of some sort of perfume.   
“It’s patchouli,” he offered, noticing my curious expression. “You will retain the scent for a few days. It is a rather strong oil.”  
“Sure,” I shrugged, and moved to peel off my robes.   
The reaper helped, lifting the hem up over my head as I slid my arms out of the loose sleeves. He backed off, however, as I slid my pants off my hips; I could hold in the irrational anxiety so long as he wasn’t— touching me. *vandalizing* me—  
I snapped my mind back into the present and stepped into the bath, sinking down so that a warm wave gushed up over my collar bone.   
The reaper knelt next to the basin and pushed his sleeves up after retrieving a cloth from an uneven wooden cupboard that hung slightly ajar at all times. Black, of course. His pale flesh stood out white against it, as its dye was less faded than his daily robes.  
My lips stuck together a little when I went to speak. “You know, this is a bit of an odd ritual—“  
“Bathing you, yes, I have been told that before,” he smiled sadly, green eyes shining with orange light that lit up his features. Only his sharp cheeks casted shadows inwards. Then he paused. “I can leave you, if you would prefer. It is simply difficult to shake the habit.”  
I waved dismissively, flicking him with a bit of water. The patchouli scent— akin to a burning lily— was strong. “You can... you can stay. I’m tired. Perhaps you should be here to ensure I don’t drown.”  
He smiled, a single tendril of silver dipping into the water. It turned dove-grey as the oils seeped into it. Carefully, and slowly, he lifted each of my arms and ran the cloth up and down. The warm cotton was refreshingly abrasive as it stripped away dust and wood splinters, and the events of the last little while, dragging up to my elbow and back down to my fingers before moving up to my shoulder, pulling hot streams of water with it. The mortician’s hand guided it up my throat and I leaned my head to side appropriately.   
His touch slowed even further, so gentle I could hardly feel it as the cotton ghosted across my bruised cheeks.   
Repeating the same process up my legs, I could sense him glance at me as soon as his reach slid up past my knees, but I forced myself to keep my eyes closed and stay relaxed.   
After dipping my head back, his talons combing my hair and fanning it out into the water, he stepped back and retrieved a towel, hair sticking to his white shirt in a couple of spots where it had fallen into the tub.   
Holding up the long black cotton sheet, he stood patiently and waited with his eyes closed for me to step out.   
“What, you don’t want to join me?” I teased as I slid my legs out over the side, into the cold, cold air.   
“You have never been one to allow any sort of flirtatious assertions while unclothed,” he murmured in reply. “Your sensitivity regarding your hips did not go unnoticed.”  
“Of course not,” I agreed mildly, leaning my body weight into the towel and laying my head against his chest. He quirked a skeptical eyebrow and his eyelids fluttered open as he wrapped his arms about me, folding the soft towel around my shoulders.   
“You are tired,” he noted, stretching his arms. “As am I. Let us retire, hmm? We may as well sleep in my actual room, rather than nonsensically returning to the sofa.”  
“You’re just trying to get me in your bed.”  
He grinned almost sheepishly, tucking his fingers just up beneath the edge of my towel as I clutched it and poking my leg teasingly.   
“I would not need to try,” he jibed back. “You have proven yourself quite adept at following orders.”  
I elbowed him in the ribs just as he finished his last word. “No, the reason you don’t need to try is because I’m going to beat you there!”  
I took off running, forgetting that the shop was dark. The bleeding light from the kitchen was all I had as my bare feet carried me across the icy concrete.   
The reaper laughed behind me. “Want to bet?”  
I heard him give chase, but I was too far ahead.   
“Bet you another damn kiss then,” I giggled hysterically, fighting the doorknob of the bedroom in the dark.  
I finally wrenched it open and threw myself forwards onto the bed, towel covering me like a cape as I landed. The mortician chuckled as he swung himself around the doorframe moments later. Igniting a lamp on the small wooden table nearby, he strode over to the wardrobe and leafed through the various layers of black, withdrawing two new pairs of back pants. Tossing one to me, he pulled his white shirt off over his head and changed fully, gesturing to the clothes that had landed at my feet.   
“I imagine you’ll be more comfortable with some layers.”  
Nodding, I discarded the towel, dropping it lazily onto the floor over he edge of the bed. Under regular circumstances, I might not have been so untidy; I did not exactly care about my household manners around the man who stole me from my life. Lifting the pants back up to my waistline, I rolled and slid under the covers, which were smooth and cold. The sheets were black.   
Brushing through his hair with his fingers, the mortician took his time in joining me, seating himself on the edge of the mattress.   
“You won again, although with slightly rigged circumstances,” he cackled, analyzing his nails for a moment before glancing down at my swaddled form.   
Pushing himself back, he sat on top of the covers and leaned back against the wall, so that his legs rested overtop mine. I watched him with a suspicious gaze.   
“And therefore,” he continued, splaying his hands out. I blushed a little while looking him up and down and tucked my face away beneath the blankets. “You can take your reward for winning the bet.”  
“You usually—“  
“Yes, I usually,” he interrupted softly. “Hence why it is you now. Take your time, I will wait,” he murmured, tilting his head of silver locks, one knee bent and the other straight out across the bed.  
His shining eyes locked on me and I sighed, debating for a moment before kicking myself out of my cocoon.   
Wordlessly, I crawled forwards over the covers up to the reaper. Shifting up to lay my hips between his legs, I coyly leaned against his shoulder. He didn’t move; just waited. Slowly, I let one of my hands drift down to his abdomen, shyly edging my mouth up to just graze the side of his throat. To my surprise, he just let out a placid little breath and tilted his head somewhat... submissively. As though he was tired. I arched my back to lay myself entirely against his pale chest, his scars meeting mine.   
Finally, his hands ran up around my hips and settled on my lower back.   
His core was warm. Blowing gently against his shoulder to push his hair out of my way, I ran my tongue up the divot of his throat, where his pulse once would have been.  
I made it my new goal to pull some sort of involuntary noise from him.   
Recalling the various things he had done, I followed my previous path with little bites, just barely nicking his pale skin.   
I kissed my way up to his ear, wiggling against him a little so I could reach, before following the curve of his jaw with my tongue, carefully laying my mouth over his as he hummed something between a sigh and a moan.   
“Cute noises,” I teased breathlessly, heart hammering in nervousness.   
He lifted an eyebrow. “You are one to talk,” he murmured back, suddenly scratching his nails up my back.  
Arching sharply, I yelped, glaring at him and hoping my bruises hid my blush. I kissed him again, cold lips meeting mine in a soft and slick embrace.   
I lifted my hand to the side of his face, smoothing my thumb up across his cheek and then tangling my fingers in his hair. Soft.  
He laughed quietly. “Enjoying yourself?”   
“Ack!—it’s—I thought I would try it,” I admitted abashedly. “But I have to settle for what I can get. I can never overpower you,” I murmured, leaning forwards and urging his mouth to meet mine again. I ran my tongue over his lip, and he responded.   
Then his icy hands fell upon my shoulders and pushed me back.   
“There,” he chuckled. “You got your reward.”  
I pouted. “I was doing good!”  
“You were,” he purred, almost sounding impressed as his eyes flickered up and down my body. “A very enthusiastic performance.”  
“Why th—“  
He forced an awkward squeak out of my chest when he shoved me backwards onto the covers unexpectedly. Crawling forwards, he leaned over me, hair trailing hauntingly against my chest.   
“Do you ever consider,” he drawled slowly, voice dark and laced with... something; drunk on power, nearly. I flinched when a white fingertip tapped my temple. “How bizarre it is indeed, this situation you have found yourself in?”  
“It’s not exactly like I had a choice,” I riposted somewhat bitterly, stiffening as he ran his mouth close to my throat. This was a strange and sudden shift in mood.   
“Perhaps not in the beginning. You could, however, still be in chains, in the basement, completing your task and then being released back into the world; yet instead, you have wiggled your way between my sheets. That, my dear, was voluntary.”  
“What are you getting at?”  
His raspy giggle echoed up through my skin and into my mouth. “Nothing, I am simply noting that your approach to the situation was quite... resourceful, and questionable at best.”  
“Your bed is far comfier than that cold floor,” I shivered. “So I’m quite happy with my decision.”  
“Ah,” he murmured, pulling back to look down at me in the dim light of the lantern.   
“But don’t you now wonder, how you are to get home?”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is gonna seem random, but the update following closely will make it make sense. It’s not long because I don’t want it to be dry. Trust <3

Abel, as a child, had watched a woman walk onto the train bridge and get blown into pieces by the steam engine that came chugging. He had developed a bad habit of revisiting the site of her death, out of a morbid fascination. Somehow, it felt therapeutic, to just be soaked in the death. His friends hadn’t understood why he came back so different that day. And since then, he had decided to talk to ghosts. He needed to know why she had walked in front of that train, and why no one else had asked her.   
He had always been teased about being too sensitive.   
So Abel dabbled in dark magic from dark libraries, said dark things and wore dark clothes. He made side money as a fortune-teller and a psychic, and then one day, at the bridge, he decided to finally work himself up to talk to the woman who had died.   
And so he stood, on the cold tracks in the cold air holding the cold book in his cold hands, safe behind his cold chains, and he felt the weird little stir of energy, and then something new happened; Abel blacked out.   
And when Abel’s mind came back out of the darkness, he was facing a demon, a blue demon, with eyes of angry hellfire.   
Abel cleared his mind and cleared his throat. “What are you?” He demanded, wondering if he had been taken over by the entity.   
The being looked surprised and blinked. Its voice was like seven swords scraping out of their scabbards at once. It spoke slowly. “How... odd.”  
“Odd?” Abel breathed. “Odd? I’m odd? How am I odd?”  
The creature blinked. “You just changed.”  
Abel glared. “What?”  
Suddenly withdrawing, the creature hooded its gaze. “Never mind me. How can I serve you? You did summon me, did you not?”  
Abel’s mouth felt dry and his throat felt stuck. “Y-yes, I did. But you are not who I expected.”  
The creature tilted its head. “Well, I am who you have. You are a spirit-worker? We can benefit from each other,” the creature smiled unnervingly and stepped up to the chains, some nasty black liquid following it. “I can tell you anything.”  
Abel stayed silent, eyeing the demon warily.   
It continued, bowing and smiling up at Abel. “O Wisen, I am a time-traveller, and I can offer you visions of the future, or whispers from the past. You are a spirit-summoner; I am a spirit-eater. If you feed me, I will provide in return.”  
Abel blinked. “A spirit-eater? You are a demon!” He hissed.   
“I can make you rich,” the demon replied, voice pleading. “I can make you the most powerful man in London. But do not take my word for it, I am a lowly faery— let me show you, with time. Go home, Abel, recover, and the next time you summon a spirit, I will come.”  
And before Abel could speak another incantation, the creature dissipated into thick black smoke, and Abel was alone.


	18. Chapter 18

We did not speak of the records for several more weeks. Over the course of that time, roughly a month, I executed daily tasks in the forms of bets. We began to gamble more often. It was anything from kisses, to food, to more extreme games, to who had to sweep the floor. I didn’t mind losing. The point of making so many deals, of exhausting the phrase “let’s make a bet”, was not to win, but rather, to force him to keep playing. Gambling was an addiction, and it was my only shot; a subtle subconscious weapon.  
I needed to get back at those records. Now, more than anything, I wanted to know why I could seemingly change the past, without the universe blowing up somehow.  
And a part of me still wanted to go home... so badly. There was a desperate ache to see familiarity, even though it seemed to fade with every day that slid through my fingers here.  
No. I was set in my decision. There was simply no choice; I had to convince him to allow me to continue my work. Without the mortician, I had no way of accessing the memories, and even if I did, I would have no protection.  
Sigh.  
And so it came down to tricks. 

 

“Let’s make a bet,” I offered.  
He rolled his eyes and set his book down. “Another?”  
I grinned. “You know you want to, come on, bets are fun.”  
With another dramatic sigh, the mortician pulled his legs off his desk and walked over to where I was sprawled, heels clicking against the floor.  
Suddenly he was very close, propping himself up on one arm in the coffin as he laid beside me. Legs over the side as his hair drifted freely in white strands. “And whatever could this bet be?” He inquired, phosphorescent eyes narrowing slightly up at me.  
“I’ll bet that you can’t make food,” I scowled. “I’m starving.”  
He rolled his eyes. “You’re setting up a bet in the hopes of losing? You’re not doing this right.”  
“I’m doing this perfectly!” I snipped, mounting anxiety shortening my temper. “Now, if I win and you don’t make food, you have to take me to the Viaduct again. If you make food and win, I’ll... brush your hair, or braid it if you want.”  
“Based on your tone, I feel that you win either way,” he murmured, a suspicious grin lacing his mouth.  
I shrugged and regained my composure. “I can’t handle being punished *all* the time.”  
The mortician leaned forwards, and I held my ground with a defiant smile as he brought his mouth very close to mine. “You will handle it later, then.”  
With that, he was gone, having vanished into the kitchen in a swirl of black robes and white hair.  
I smiled to myself uneasily. I was so close to winning all of this. I just had to be patient. 

Of course, I ended up brushing his hair, back up on the couch in the loft in the warm midday hours. The bright sunshine glittered off the elegant strands as I lifted my hand and pulled them through the metal comb. The Undertaker, legs folded as he sat on the floor in front of me, spent his time scrawling something in a book. I reflected on how odd it was, that someone might look at this book in the future, and consider it an antique. Perhaps it would be one of many burned away with the Library of Alexandria, or if it would be shipped across Europe and at some point be slashed apart by the Nazi regime. I felt cursed with this knowledge. Staring blankly at the reaper as I pulled the comb through another lock, I realized, he must feel the same. He may not even understand everything he sees in the same way I do, with historical context and buildup. Instead, he sees the worser aspects of it, the brunt of human nature, when one slaughters another and leaves them to die alone on the pavement.  
I refrained from launching a conversation on the topic... that could wait.  
The entire day now, I had been working myself up for proposing the main bet. My insides churned with anxiety.  
Eventually, I sighed. “Undertaker.”  
His hand paused in his scripture. He could sense the gravity in my voice, so it seemed. “Hm?”  
“I want to make a deal,” I said quickly.  
Without turning, he laughed and began writing again, voice cool and calm, reflected in his thin looping letters. His words were slow with concentration as he fought to write and speak different things. “A deal? Very well. What kind of deal?”  
I halted the comb and closed my eyes. “Let me back at the memories.”  
His shoulders tensed, and I continued talking before he could interrupt. “If I can’t figure out anything useful within the span of these last two bodies, I’ll stop making efforts, and... I’ll stay. I’ll stay here with you... and I won’t try again.”  
The stress between us was an awful weight on my shoulders.  
“And if you win?” He murmured slowly. “If you do manage to figure it out?”  
I shrugged. “Well then, I serve my purpose, and we both win, right?”  
The tension in his shoulders did not drain away, and I bit my lip. His fingertips were gripping the ink pen so hard, I worried it might snap, and I waited for the devastating crack in the heavy silence.  
Instead, I received an unnervingly muted reply.  
“...Convince me.”  
I leapt on the opportunity, sensing wings of gold confidence fanning out behind me. Fly with opportunity.  
“Those two corpses are already dead and prepped for the memory procedures. I know what to expect now; and you can easily protect me from anything that might happen, can’t you? You managed to last time. I know it scared you when I got lost. It scared me too. But that was literally the worst that could happen—we can only go up from here!”  
His stiff shoulders stayed tight as he turned around to face me, fiery green eyes fixing on mine. My wings lost their feathers one by one as I curled in on myself, praying that this didn’t wind up with me restrained in a morgue for eternity. This man was far too unpredictable for comfort.  
His lips parted slowly. “One body.” The warning in the hesitance of his voice was tangible. “...You get one chance. At the first sign of danger, I pull you out, and you never. ask. again.”  
Silence.  
I swallowed nervously, and set my lips in a thin line. “Good enough.”

 

The basement was colder than usual, without the fire in the back corner.  
The mortician was sitting on one of the old wooden chairs from the desk in the opposite corner, watching me carefully and pouting unhappily. His eyes were stormy and dark, despite the bright white light from the pulsing memories in front of me. It was a hollow moment.  
“Stop mourning,” I snapped, glancing over my shoulder at him and eyeing the scythe balanced across his hands. “I’m not dead yet.”  
“I’m not mourning!” He hissed. “I’m just—worried.”  
“Stressed,” I nodded, and took an unsteady breath in. “Me too.”  
And before he could stop me further, I pushed my hands into the film reels.  
Steadfastedly, I fought off the urge to let myself get sucked in to a random part of the corpse’s life. I ran my hands over the film, testing colours and feelings and trying to run the records through my fingers to reach the end. I didn’t want to get dragged in again. That’s not what I was here for.  
There were flashes, memories, that tried to overtake me. I had to fight them with my own, stapling myself in memories of my childhood, what I had eaten at the Viaduct, the first thing the mortician ever said to me, and others.  
I continued to sift through the memories. They almost felt slippery, like satin that was a little too smooth. Silk coated in silver. White, flash of colour, flash of emotion, random stabbing pain, I can’t feel my fingers, who’s that...  
Then something shifted. It was so small, and so subtle, I almost missed it. Nearly slipped right through my hands.  
On the glowing white surface of one of the reels, there was a strange black smudge. It looked like a scorch mark. Ashy black and brown streaks marred the light.  
Scowling in concentration, I slowed down my efforts, winding back in time until that panel was between my fingers, and I carefully allowed myself get dragged in.  
A weird tug in my stomach arose, and then, the air was cold.  
I opened my eyes on a bridge, at night. Old railway tracks pressed into my feet. In my pale hands, with longer and whiter fingers than I was used to, rested a leather-bound book, and I was standing in a circle of chains.  
Holy shit.  
All kinds of conclusions flashed through my head. Ghost hunting, demonic summoning, paganism, witchcraft, cryptids... what else had I read about even used those chains?  
The silence around me was oppressive. No motors in the distance; only crickets, and owls, and the rushing of water. Where the hell was I? I glanced over the side of the narrow railway bridge. I was standing in the centre, over a huge rushing river. If a train came, I was jelly on the tracks. Well, fuck me then.  
Anxiously, I cleared my throat. I glanced at the fingertips gripping the book, so nervous that they were going truly white. Ack. I shook myself clear of nerves. Must continue the memory.  
Lips feeling dry, I coughed again and glanced down, allowing a voice that wasn’t mine to speak the words in front of me. They felt heavy and alien. My insides didn’t like the taste.  
As I completed the sermon in the dark, a whiteish-blue mist began to spiral up out of the blackness in front of me. The ectoplasm reached out towards me; not malevolently, but it was quite creepy. Was this... a... ghost? Was this what the body on the table in front of me did? What I was doing?  
I felt my eyes widen involuntarily as the maybe-ghost drifted towards me. Thankfully, it’s efforts halted at the chains surrounding me, and it pulled particles of light back into itself and hovered in the air, growing and slowly stabilizing itself. I kept talking, urging it into existence, listening carefully to the gentle wind-like sound that drifted from it.  
This was insane.  
Then, another smudge of energy began to appear, swirling in through the blackness of the night and crawling up behind the blinding light. It was a strange smokey smear of black, dark aqua, and streaks of bright orange. It was actually quite gorgeous, and I watched with curiosity as it drew up near to the first glowing spectre. Both energies seemed to be humming, quietly whistling high-pitched wails that vanished into the silence of the night.  
Suddenly, the orange and green thing attacked the white, the smoke striking forwards like a dozen snakes and surrounding it. One of the wails strengthened in pitch, screaming out in pain as it was... absorbed... for every little particle of white, that actually bled a red stain as it disappeared into the second creature, it seemed to solidify on the ground in front of me. In a convulsing, shrieking, and agonized struggle, the white entity was ...eaten, and I watched on in horror, completely lost as to what was happening. My gaze was fixed. Petrified.  
As the last flash of white vanished, a new creation blinked at me.  
I was staring at an actual creature, smoke drifting around it’s feet and melting into a strange tar on the ground. The flesh was a strange and faery-like blue, with violent and bright orange eyes staring me down. Long, thin, and tangled black hair that looked... wet... hung loosely around its face and down its shoulders. The strangest part, in my mind, was not the creature, but rather, the fact that it was wearing human clothing; a black long-sleeve with a wide neck and brown burlap pants that ended just below its knees.  
Blanking with fear, I glanced down at my book. Was there a counter-spell? What the fuck just happened? I couldn’t even tell if I was interfering with the memory, or if I was just experiencing it.  
The creature stood patiently, black smoke stagnating around it. Its hooded eyes watched me with a gaze that I could not read.  
“Interesting,” it murmured, and I cringed. Its voice carried too many pitches at once; like wind, whipping and snapping through all different trees. “What are you?” It sounded lightly amused.  
I cleared my throat. “I am...”  
“Unaccounted for,” it finished for me.  
I felt tears prickling at my eyes. I remembered the last time I was this scared... during the my last nightmare. Unpleasant.  
I clenched my teeth. “And what are you?” I demanded. The odd liquid smoke looked like the same type of smear that I had seen across the memory.  
The thing bowed lightly. “Myrverth, for those who care to address me as such.”  
My voice was shaking, and as I tried to speak, a strange suffocation rose up in my throat. Woozy and suddenly lightheaded, I struggled to not stumble over the edge of the bridge as I got dragged back in through my own consciousness, memories conjoining and breaking as I spun. Finally, I passed out and woke up in the arms of the Undertaker.  
“Don’t cut those records!” I commanded breathlessly, eyes closed as I buried my fingers in his robes and pressed my face against his shoulder as I thrashed around to face him.  
“Are you alright?” He murmured, hand anxiously running through my hair a few times.  
“I’m—I’m fine, I’m fine, I remember who I am and all that... but I found something...interesting... I think it can lead me somewhere.”  
“What is it?” He pressed, concerned.  
I shook my head and pushed away from him.  
“I don’t know.”  
“Be caref—“  
No time to be careful. I needed to know why that thing... Myrverth or whatever, had physically tainted the memories of this corpse. Obviously it could affect them, burn them from the inside. Maybe it knew how. Another piece of the memory composition.  
I grabbed onto the memories and sifted quickly through, ignoring the screams as the reels fluttered up around me, obviously spurred on by my chaotic energy. The mortician swore and I felt him spin and lean his back against mine, supposedly defending me from whatever the memories intended.  
Locating another smudge quickly, I sank into the memory.  
It was much the same, except this time I was on the edge of a tall building, looking down at the stones far below, and I felt far less nervous.  
With a new flavour of aggressive anxiety, I read aloud from the book in my hands. Up came a white spirit; and what followed was orange and green, and I watched apprehensively as the first energy was violently absorbed, red and white light flashing across my face.  
Then the creature hovered before me. Glowing orange eyes blinked once at me, and then it grinned.  
“Ah, you again,” it chuckled, voice like chains rattling against a long series of metal pipes.  
“Me,” I offered suspiciously, through the voice of the corpse, waiting for it to toss me another line of conversation.  
The eyes looked too clever as they flickered up and down my body.  
After an awkward silence, I dared challenge it with a question. “Are you a demon?”  
The thing looked surprised, before it tossed its head back and laughed once. “Of course not. I am not evil, nor from Hell; nor do I eat souls.”  
“It rather seems like you do, actually,” I argued, remembering the agonizing screams of the first energy at he tracks.  
“Well...” it grimaced. “That’s a rather new habit, actually. And only you, strange necromancer, allow me to do so.”  
I glared at it as it drifted closer, hands lifting to gesticulate rather creepily.  
“I... I am not a... necromancer,” I replied cautiously. And I was NOT responsible for whatever horrors this thing wrought.  
The being hummed. “Tell me then,” it answered back softly, “what are you?”  
“I...” I cut myself off. The creature seemed untrustworthy, too eager for information.  
I cleared my throat and narrowed my eyes. “What do you know about cinematic reels?” I demanded.  
The spectre’s eyes widened briefly, before it chuckled and floated backwards a small ways. “Why, quite a bit.” Its eyes narrowed at me equally. “And what do you know about them, suspicious mortal? You should not even be aware of their existence. So you are not... a regular human, are you...”  
The creature drifted back towards me.  
Hardening my gaze, I glanced back at my book and reassured myself that the chains were locked in a tight circle around me. “Tell me what you know,” I growled.  
“Hmhmhm! What do you want to hear?”  
“How do you affect them?” I asked slowly.  
“Why,” the thing grinned, spreading its hands wide, white light fanning out between its fingers. “I...make...them...”  
“You do not,” I replied bitterly. “You burn them.”  
“Very well, allow me to adjust—I *can* make them. Now,” it pondered, memory-like beam of light dissipating into the darkness. “What did you mean, I burn them? And to whose soul are we referring?”  
“M-m-“  
Suddenly, I couldn’t speak again, and my vision went black as I was ripped back out of the memory.  
I was all the way across the room, far from the body on the table.  
The sudden shift in scenery was jarring. Reaching out blindly, I grasped onto the mortician and made some nonsensical noise of panic as he dragged me up by the collar, spinning his scythe against the angry memories as he wrapped his arm around my waist.  
I tried to reach for the reels again, failed, and blacked out.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s already June ;-; how  
> Also, this chapter will make a LOT more sense if you have read my other fics, When In Rome and Hotel California. Sorry if you’re trying to enjoy this as a stand-alone fanfic, you’ll still understand what’s going on, I believe. Enjoy everyone <3 those following closely, this may piece together a couple things from the aforementioned stories :3 comment what you learn!

You would not have believed how boring Abel was without the little critter that invaded his mind. The small seizures he experienced when that human took over were the only mildly amusing or potentially interesting thing about him; otherwise, he was just another lonely soul.  
I had always hoped to find a way to make a better soul, to create something that was better than human, and put it in the same shell. My kind had made far too many mistakes. The uselessness of what my brethren wove absolutely destroyed me. It is why I quit so long ago, and left the making of souls to the pale, bitter groupies of what once were powerful immortals.  
I scowled and spun in a circle in the darkness. We had always asked for so little. The energy that a grim reaper releases into the void of time and space was so insignificant, it would have vanished into the improbability of the mathematical universe somehow... had we not taken it for ourselves.  
I will readily admit, I have been notably hungrier these centuries, and I alone filled the Victorian era with ”apparitions” and ghosts of fallen mortals. Some of my consumptions echoed through other reels, and jumped into other timelines, even. Ghosts; my shield from prying human eyes.  
And then... this... bizarre little mortal popped up. Up through time.  
I receded further into the blackness, the familiar abyss of my abode. My natural state. I could see... time... this way, in streaks and pulses of energy, immovable shapes and malleable colours. I hunted, endlessly, for an eternity, for the disturbed soul that was suddenly interfering with me. How had this strange necromancer made the link between myself and the energies of past humans? I had... eaten...the ghost, the ACTUAL spirit of the mortals as I was “conjured” or whatever they were doing. And god, it had felt so good. Such a primitive part of me was so satisfied in the ultimate destruction and reabsorption of these violent failures of my kin.  
But just, how was it exactly, that this mortal could dredge me up so? What had led them to me?  
After eternities of searching, I began to recognize the pattern of disruption. There the soul was again. This...  
I forced myself into...  
A little ball...  
A marble...  
..pulled along the strings of space, the very fibres of reality.. like a raindrop, rolling down a spider’s web, guided only by abstract forces. It was so serene, to float through the silence like this.  
Little Eli.  
Eli, that was the name of the soul. Now, if I traced these reels...  
My tools for combing through the tangled records sprouted from my back; long, slender, flexible, powerful appendages, blackened by the smoke that covered them. I allowed my physical form to manifest hazily. Drifting in the darkness of the void, I flicked my amber eyes open and traced Eli’s cinematic record. The rules of time did not allow for me to invade the memory, as if I did break through the extremely tough ectoplasmic layer present on the memories while alive, the time rift would shred me upon impact.  
So, I observed, skimming the entirety of the reels. Childhood, minor trauma, high school embarrassment, a strange little screen in their hand...  
Green eyes flashed across the reels. Dropping my hold in surprise, I stumbled back, nearly tripping and falling into the void. My tentacles barely caught me on the edge of the collection of cinematic reels I had immersed myself in.  
There was no way I had seen... that!  
My hands nearly shook. I felt the sick dread pooling in my stomach, a very human anxiety. Desperately tossing the reels around myself, I searched for that spot again.  
The reaper smiled out at me from the film reels, eyes boring right through time and into mine.  
I shrieked and released the reels again, recoiling and staring in horror.  
The reaper.  
That reaper.  
He could not see me, of course.  
Oh, but I could see him.  
So *that* was how the mortal was accessing me!  
I narrowed my eyes, rage slowly but surely replacing fear. Of course. That bloody terror just could not leave us be.  
Scanning through the records from the reaper on, I watched carefully.  
I was horrified by what I saw.  
Broken bones, manipulation, bruises, terror, emotional breakdowns... what the bloody hell did this reaper assume he would accomplish?  
He was forcing Eli to work for him, shoving Eli into the memories again and again as the human was tortured further and further.  
I couldn’t breathe for how disgusted I was.  
Did this man have such little regard for... absolutely everything? I wanted to exterminate souls, slowly, through a process of natural death, and yet my empathy still got the better of me, witnessing Eli’s torment. Had he no idea what danger and what torture he was putting this mortal through? To what end? Why was he using a damn mortal? Those things were so easy to grind up with the tiniest fraction of raw time! What the hell was he doing?!!?  
I drifted closer to the edge. I had to be careful not to surpass the “end” of Eli’s ongoing records, or I’d get lost in the static until the mortal died. I crept up, steadily, slowly. So careful. Pick your way.  
The mortician’s mouth angrily screamed at the human. I wondered if Eli informed him of me, but... I got the sense, from how Eli averted their eyes when he demanded information, that they had not.  
Strange.  
I almost felt like a secret, a protected friend, a coveted treasure.  
Humans. You are all so odd, and I just absolutely despise you all so much.  
So this reaper was back, huh?  
Wrapping one tentacle around the reel of film near the end of Eli’s soul, I pulled my mind back out into the void.  
The reaper.  
I carefully followed the little green trail leading from Eli’s memories into the blackness. There! A chartreuse smudge of energy, similar to the many other orbs that zipped back and forth, cutting memories all around. But this one sat still, isolated in the bleak emptiness of space and time.  
Ah! Interesting...  
Something I had not counted on appeared. Two more threads of green spiralled off into the darkness.  
Pulling back further, dissociating, I traced both paths at once.  
Langdon and London. Inconveniently similar.  
I smiled to myself.  
Hello, little souls.  
Sure enough, there the mortician appeared, flashing through my mind in two’s... it was the strangest juxtaposition I had ever witnessed.  
To my left, London was being romantically dipped and toyed with whimsically by the man, and on my right, Langdon was being drowned in water and cut by fire.  
What... kind of... bipolar psychopath was this hellish reaper?  
I needed not ask. Of course, I had already heard the legends, but... some part of me had hoped that he had... calmed down, after nearly a thousand years.  
My hackles bristled.  
And then a thought struck me.  
I could... use these mortals. All of them were connected to him... perhaps, perhaps I could kill two birds with one stone here.  
London was dead, and Eli was already wrapped up in time and cinematic records. Both were clearly attached to the mortician. If I took them, I could both hurt the reaper, and potentially lure him to a place where his power was useless, and I could—just maybe—accomplish my goal of creating a superior human soul.  
Then I would be the hero.  
Yes, yes, this could work!  
And Langdon, well...  
I was certain I could find a use for them.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 chapters up in a day babyyy

“I need to go back.”  
“Absolutely not.”  
“I was so close! I was—“  
“You were what, exactly?” The mortician hissed, spinning on his heel and pressing his palms flat on the little kitchen table as he leaned over me, eyes venomous and challenging. “What, precisely, were you doing?”  
Again, that nasty little gut feeling that I shouldn’t tell him of the creature surfaced. It was a strange mixture of fear of his temper, jealousy, mistrust, and his unfortunate habit of overprotection, and that those combined may keep me from having any chance back at the memories if I exposed the... demon thing.   
I pressed my lips together and shook my head weakly, hiding in my chair. “I...I just...I can’t describe it...”  
“And you obviously can’t control it,” he snapped in response, white hair wild and whipping about him as he gestured, grabbing my left wrist suddenly and lifting my hand between us. “You’re nothing but a puppet once those things touch you!”  
“I’m not!” I protested, pulling on my hand, fearful he was going to break my fingers in his rage.   
“You have no way to fight them! You’re completely incapable of keeping your own damn identity separate!”   
“That’s what you’re there for!” I screamed, tears of frustration brimming. “Don’t fucking come next time, and then we’ll see how idiotic and weak I really am! Maybe I wasn’t done, huh? Maybe I’m not as stupid as you think!”  
He put his fist through the wall, grip on my wrist tightening as he balanced his momentum. I didn’t flinch, staring up at him with limitless anger even as the stones snapped away.   
The physicality of breaking the brickwork seemed to bring him clarity. “There won’t be a next time,” he snarled, hooding his iridescent eyes in a condescending glare as he stood straight, releasing my hand and stepping back.   
“You can’t do that!” I screamed, retracting my arms and glaring back just as poisonously. I needed to get back in those memories. Something in them was letting me interact with the past, in a way that I shouldn’t be able to, and I needed to—  
“Actually, I believe I can,” he crossed his arms. “As I am far stronger than you are, and in the end of all of this, whatever I say goes, human,” the reaper hissed.   
“Demoted to human, am I? It’s okay, I’m used to being objectified by you! How long did you keep me nameless for, you over-empowered f—!”  
My taunt was cut short.   
A long black marble blade bit into the wall behind my throat. The edge was itchy against the side of my neck, the curvature of the blade hugging my carotid and jugular dangerously.   
Paralyzed, I swallowed hesitantly after a long moment of silence, barely daring to breathe as I stared back at the thorn-decked skull looming in front of me.   
Coming into focus down the long handle of the scythe, the mortician tilted his head.   
“Over-empowered?” He murmured, clicking his tongue mildly. “Why yes, I would say so.”  
My voice wouldn’t come. “...y...you...”  
Lifting his eyebrows skeptically, the Undertaker waited for the words. “I...?”  
Swallowing again, I forced my knees to stop shaking and tore my eyes away from the black pits of the skull, hardening my glare as it met his. “You forgot the last word, you over-empowered fuck.”  
Oh, that felt so good.   
It was his turn to be paralyzed, but I could see him recovering quickly, surprise morphing into rage.   
“Do it,” I whispered, before repeating it louder. “Do it!”  
“Why are you not afraid?!” He demanded hysterically, eyes alight with manic intensity and mouth open in shock. His hands gripped the handle tighter, ripping the blade from the wall and holding it up over his shoulder.   
“Because you need me alive more than I need me alive!!” I screamed back, voice breaking from the effort.   
I lunged forwards, grabbing onto the scythe handle when he swung it up to block me. Pulling myself to him, I flung my body towards the blade. Retracting quickly, the mortician kicked me away. I sprawled painfully on the concrete. No matter.   
Bouncing to my feet, I leapt again for the scythe blade, dodging around him and forcing him to keep turning and twisting as I aimed to cut myself upon the thing.   
After a few more short moments, the reaper’s scythe was banished into thin air, and he grabbed both my shoulders as I lunged frantically again.   
“Stop this!” He cried.   
“YOU stop!” I wailed in return, completely prepared to unleash every last shred of frustration. I kicked and flailed at him, thrashing even as he pinned my arms to my sides, dragging me up against him.   
I was crying as hard as waterfalls. Shame, disgust, confusion, anger, and grief all mixed together, and all sick of being caged. So let the demons fly.   
Then his arms wrapped around my torso tightly. I was hardly aware of it, except that I knew I was still being restricted. I kicked at him and cried and spat insults for a good while longer, absolutely losing my mind.   
Eventually, at some point, I peaked in energy and began to grow weaker. The fight concluded with me leaning into him somehow, his arms still secured tightly around my shoulders. I sobbed weakly and trembled against chest. Tired, exhausted.   
Long black nails slowly wove into my hair.   
When I glanced up at him, red-faced and tear-streaked, he was also extremely fatigued.   
Without looking at me, he sighed.   
“Come to bed, now,” he rasped. “The day is over.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ACK

I was stuck in a car. Seated in the driver’s seat, I glanced out of the window to my right, and saw an unrecognizable face. It felt like someone I was supposed to know... something about the eyes... they were not the mortician’s, but something softer, warmer. They blinked at me, looking worried.   
I glanced at the steering wheel. Both of us heard the strange sound at the same time, and that’s when I registered it; the car had a bomb in it. I was going to be killed.   
Suddenly panicked, I glanced sharply at the stranger, who was also beginning to tense. I pulled at my seatbelt, trying to unlock it. It was stuck. I couldn’t move it! Why was it stuck?! Why now?!   
I screamed something, crying for help, begging the stranger to help me. Twisting my hips, I began to crawl from the seat, sliding out from under the belt as the ticking sound grew louder by the second.   
Desperately, the stranger grit their teeth and smashed the passenger side window, reaching their arms in and grabbing my shoulders, dragging me out of the car.   
We collapsed on the ground, and I awoke when the car exploded, sitting bolt upright in the bed and barely stifling a scream.   
Panting heavily, I looked down to my left. Blackness.   
I slowly and shakily reached out, and felt the Undertaker’s hair fanned out across the pillow next to me. Still asleep.   
Well, that was strange, I thought, slowly pulling my legs from underneath the covers as I calmed my heart rate and pushed sweat-slicked hair back from my face. My typical nightmare fashion would have simply had me killed in the explosion, not rescued. This dream, while stressful, had a strangely optimistic conclusion.   
How odd.   
I shrugged it off and let my feet adjust to the cold concrete floor as I carefully padded into the kitchen, reaching for the little jar of water and pouring myself a glass. I sat at the table for a few moments, calming down.   
When I exited the kitchen, I turned to my right, passed the basement door, and wrapped my fingers around the frigid handle of the bedroom doorknob.   
I froze.   
Slowly, I turned back, staring at the door to the basement.   
I could... just... go in there.   
Ashamed, I glanced back at the bedroom door. I knew that the reaper was still fast asleep. Surely, I could sneak in, do my shit, and sneak out before morning. I just had to be quick, and not spend so long chatting with the demon thing.   
I needed to know what it was, what was in those memories, and what I was doing to them. The mystery practically sang my name.   
I released the bedroom handle. Hesitantly, I placed my hand against the door to the basement, and pulled it open.   
Wincing as it creaked, I cursed. Everything was so squeaky here!!   
I waited, eyes fixed in terror on the bedroom door, but the mortician simply continued to sleep.   
Exhaling a sigh of relief, I stepped down into the cold.   
Immediately, I could see my feet illuminated by the ghostly light of the memories. There they were, waiting for me.   
I took three steps down.   
Leaping out of my skin, I shrieked when two cold skeletal hands grabbed my shoulders. I twisted in reaction, and in a short scuffle, one of the hands cuffed my wrist tightly.   
Fuck, fuck, I’m so fucked—  
“You tried to sneak around me?!” He screamed, enraged and in a slight state of disbelief.   
I looked at the reaper’s flashing eyes. Betrayal.   
Pulling on my hand, I thrashed away, wary of falling down the rest of the stairs.   
He continued, yanking me back with his skeletal grip. “Do you even understand how dangerous this is?!”  
“I have to figure this out!” I wailed back. “You don’t understand! The memories... they need me!”  
“You’ve gone insane!” He snapped, eyes widening. “Do you hear yourself?”  
His hair whipped around us as we fought, back and forth on the stairs, blinding me.   
Somehow, I wrenched my wrist out of his grip, nearly tumbling down the remaining steps as I fled his rage.   
“Leave me alone, let me go!!” I screamed, bursting into the room and dashing to the memories.   
Faster than light, the Undertaker appeared in front of me, a terrifying tall black figure outlined by the white beams from the reels. I screeched and dropped to the ground, scooting back on my hands.   
The mortician swept his looming scythe up over his shoulder, wind rising in a ghastly howl as his sharp green eyes flashed angrily in the darkness.   
My heart dropped. He was going to kill me.   
Spinning, robes swirling about his ankles, the reaper aimed the scythe at the centre of the reels, about to slice them all in half.   
Desperation drove me forwards.   
“No!” I screamed, lunging into the memories before the Undertaker could catch me. As the wails of the dead overwhelmed me from all angles, I vaguely registered the mortician shouting for me.  
New problem; I had leapt in too chaotically, and I was spiralling in a whirlwind of confusing flashes of colour. I felt like I was drowning. Terrified, I reached my hands out, dragging them through the surfaces of the reels and trying to catch an object somewhere. Something to ground me, to catch—  
Suddenly, a familiar face appeared.   
“Ah,” Myrverth cooed softly, large amber eyes hooded above a welcoming smile. “There you are.”  
A blue-green hand extended through the chaotic flashing white of the reels writhing around me. Glancing back over my shoulder, my vision got flipped around and I could view the Undertaker, reaching for me.   
I turned back and planted my hand in the creature’s.   
It grinned, long black hair blown back by the constant whirling of the memories. Before my eyes, long black insect-ish leg things—tentacles, nearly—sprouted from behind the creature, before one limb shot forwards and punched me in the chest, breaking apart like curls of smoke before wrapping around my torso and dragging me out of the memories and into blackness.   
At the sensation of being completely removed from all of history, I passed out. 

 

As soon as Eli had dove for the records, the mortician forced his scythe to dissipate into time before he could swing it at the memories. It was an instinctive reaction.   
The Undertaker leapt forwards as well, reaching for Eli’s tiny body, as the mortal became paralyzed at first contact with the records. A millisecond before his fingers grasped their collar, the memories exploded outwards, in a huge wave of white light, accompanied with horrifying screeches of history being shredded. It threw the reaper across the room. Regaining consciousness immediately, the mortician found himself lying near the far wall, bleeding from his left hand and surrounded by shards of the memories, little white crystals scattered across the floor of the basement, dimly pulsating white light. The body itself was scorched, blackened and burnt to the desk.   
He gazed around slowly. In a numb state of shock, the mortician shakily grasped a small crystal between his fingers and looked into it. An empty white slate.   
Mouth open and eyes wide, paralyzed as the gravity of the situation hit him, the reaper barely registered the teardrops that began to dampen his lashes, wetting his cheeks as he clutched the shard to his chest and gasped weakly for air. The basement was empty, and silent, except for the corpse, the crystals, and his breathing.   
Shoulders shaking, the Undertaker buried his eyes in the crook of his arm on the floor, sobbing. There was not nearly enough comfort in his soft sleeve. Through gritted teeth, the words could barely escape, hurting his lungs with their agonizing weight in his throat as he wept.   
“...d..don’t...leave...me...”  
The room around him remained silent. 

 

^*^*^*^*^*^*  
WOOHOO! Okay, the story isn’t over, eli’s coming back nOBODY PANIC! Hear me out. Massive cliffhanger, right? Well, folks, if you’ve joined us on this story only, frankly, you’ve only had 1/3 of the fun!! I have two other fan fictions I’ve mentioned, when in Rome and hotel California! If you haven’t read those, just click my name to go find them. You see, the stories are similar to this one, and all three of these stories of mine are COMIN BACK in the fourth story which will be posted shortly! Featuring Eli, Langdon, and London, as well as of course the Undertaker, Myrverth (whoever that is, right??) where intense plot ensues (a continuation of this) as well as good ol science and sexual tension! I also have a fourth story called memoirs of a mortician, which begins to tell the stories of these characters; from the Undertaker’s point of view! I’m having fun with it, and that will help clarify the timeline between the three stories. Lots of updates there coming soon. Seriously tho, go show my other fics some love! I’m having a completely brilliant time with this community and would always love to get all the more people hooked on some characters. Hope to see you again, hope you enjoyed the story!! Fourth story coming will be something along the lines of “For the Time Being” (heh it’s a pun) <3


	22. Chapter 22

Fourth story has begun, folks

It’s called “For the Time Being”, strap in bc this is the epic conclusion for our characters. Gonna be an exciting ride.


End file.
